sinners shouldnt throw stones in glass houses with broken mirrors..

i spent 1000s of days loving him even if it wasnt right. my nights i would die trying.

in the silence of love you will find the spark of life.

he's a friend, not a salad!

“Music at its best…is the grand archeology into and transfiguration of our guttural cry, the great human effort to grasp in time our deepest passions and yearnings as prisoners of time. Profound music leads us—beyond language—to the dark roots of our scream and the celestial heights of our silence.”
— Cornel West, The Cornel West Reader

Eths - Animaexhalare

I should have felt the distress in your fall, this denial, your refusal of the life that bound us by spite.
I understand, feel the addiction drinking you towards the bottom, she courses in me, draws myself to me.
Without the voice, dialog is not audible and only your hand remains, its writings that will replace your screams in the end.
An odor of flesh battles the perfume, takes possession of the air.
Violently sucked by this gaping hole, he watches me, atones, and throws “now or never”.
All these words that we had never been able to say were exchanged in silence through the stares of our two fissured beings.
Soft moment, soft mother…
Without weakening, a muted hostility fed this furious desire to finally contemplate a common spectacle.
Many times, I wrote a relentless scenario.
Every evening, misfortune’s garb adjusted, unavowable.
Time, its work, only leaves from the somber hours intercalated flashes of this frightening hell that broke us all.
Waves of corrodible ethanol burned your choices, here’s what’s left of you, a warm slow light of a cold sun, these rare profound instants of communion veiling an inevitable destruction.
For a long time, all that remained of darkness was an impatient urge to leave, to grow, forsake the smoked filled cave, bathed in alcohol, break the chains of the past, create the unreal.
My visceral ideal lost in the abysses of obscurity absolves the soft dissonant accords of melancholy, strident, exhumes my cadaver from boredom.
Naked facing the world, asphyxia seems natural, arterial.
Ages can run, experience feed, resentments rot, the atonal textures and times provide a chance to heal.
The pullulating insect, chewer of cells, fattened by abuse, menacing of a thousand warnings, devoured you.
Emprisoned in your throat, the starved beast closed itself.
Here you are now amongst us, my benevolent mother, appeased at the sides of those that build us.
Grows, those that taught us to dominate this sinister atavistic madness that embraces us you and me.
We could have only met at the end, these final deaf hours before the departure, gorged of delicate smiles, attention, these breaths of comprehension have etched my memory forever.
I tasted so little of all this, it is so hard, I miss it.


*from french to english, roughly translated.

“Looking back, I stopped writing in my notebook when I stopped wanting to know myself anymore. If you hear a song that makes you cry and you don’t want to cry anymore, you don’t listen to that song anymore. But you can’t get away from yourself. You can’t decide not to see yourself anymore. You can’t decide to turn off the noise in your head.”
— Jay Asher