Just the same, everyday I wake up imagining that that would be the day when my penis won't move - just like my already dead hand, when my eyelids would stop flopping, when my smile would freeze like a skinmade tattoo, when my tongue would be buried in my gluey saliva and never rise again to feel the air that it used to breathe.
Every night the filthiest of the filthiest diseases rot my skin, my teeth and gums, my lungs my brains, they rot my hope and dreams.
I lie down in the smelly brothels of my imagination and sleep with the sluttiest whores one could ever hope for. Our offsprings are nothing but mere degenerates - human derelicts.
My breath smells like deah. Hell, my death smells better than myself.
I sweat blood, I spit cum, I bleed piss and I cum limonade. I'm the surogate of the man I could have been if only I hadn't had my head filled with paranoid cyber punk nightmares that mock my reality and fuck up my visions.
