la volonté de puissance

I'd like to type away notes on a keyboard and sing through the screen, instead of giving birth only to pixels and fadeouts, words too clean, sickly and pale. For the human voice is.

Or paint the smell of cologne, the slight push of pavement beneath my soles, the mismatch of thoughts ... but all the words have been dried up already, premade images to be used and reused, for the convenience of many - but I ache. Find a language to match the tongue and speech of All - german so flexible, so distant still; french, spanish, hang meaning on the counterring of two words, which by and by have no substance alone; english, poised on the tongue, free from most chains of syntax and word separation but still hindered,locked down, bent under pressure to stick to the meanings wellknown, wellthought, wellcleared.

Fuck, we're young.
In all possible senses. Ways.

One more skiprope to trip over and it'll be the start of our new rollercoaster - holding on to the seats till our nails bleed with fear and exhaustion, exhilaration, disgust that twists the guts and sends us slamming headfirst through paper doors, for it's all show, really. And I look forward to the tin-tasting pleasure of almost giving up, and mentally relishing the knowledge I'm good, I worked, I'm a nice serious girl and have owned such a right as to pester surroundings thereon.
Look how I suffer. pat pat.


Have a biscuit and praise me, now.

This is life. No ersatz, no pause - the wounds we give each other and the flesh we covet, every second, every thought, is as dense as can be, real in every sense and heavy, moist, the smell of days spent in our youths - the brick will never be more rought under our knees, the sky bluer, the speeches more sincere - we build ourselves throughdays on solid ground and thoughts that'll shape our cells and do, already. This is life.

Que demande le peuple?