I will end my life.
It wont be today, but in the neat future.
As today, drunk and high of my feet, and fresh out of listening what I consider the Magnus Opus of Art as a form of expression, I have took my decision.
Time will not be my Master, I will take control over it.
My deathbed will be no more, I have the final wish.
Because I’m one out of 7 billion, no one will weep.
Will you care?
The oil the runs trough my pipes will feed the organic machine no more, I will free into oblivion.
My memories, No more. My experiences will vanish. No more.
My internal prison of solitude is crumbling inside another one. I’m to weak to give in. I’m to weak to give in. I’m to strong to want to keep going.
I have fantasized the method. Hanging is the preferred one.
I will brace my neck with the rasping rope, it will itch my neck.
I will climb a chair, I will buy a pretty one for the occasion.
I will step one step.
My first thought will be:
-I finally did it.
I will find calm for a second, then my instincts will force it way out.
I will grab the rope with my hands, my face red in panic.
For a second I will regret my suicide.
My legs shamble, My hands tight around the rope.
I will try to scream, but I cannot. I have no air to fuel my shriek.
I will die.