You swear you can feel the pain after the failure, you deny it. After all, it happened in the life that joined us on despite. I understand it’s an addiction and got you from the bottom, without the voice the dialogue can be very audible if the words are replaced by the writing, it can take over the screams. 

A smell of clarity, takes possession of the air, looks at me and tells me "now or never." and all those words we weren't supposed to say, finds us between the silence and our fissured faces. Two steps, sweet friend.

Without breathing the animadversion, feeds that furious desire to contemplate an uncommon spectacle. Many times I've written implacable scenarios, and every night the habit of disgrace gets adjusted, unbearable. Letting the dark times become hell and break everything, those blows of ethanol, corrosive, burning your choices, and that's all its left of you, a slow light of a cold sun. Those odds instants of communion are veils of inevitable destruction, and between this darkness i have the growing envy impatient to leave, abandon the room filled with smoke and impregnated with alcohol, break the chains of the past and believe the unreal.

My visceral ideal got lost between the abysm of an absolute emptiness, those two chords of strident melancholia exhume my body from life. 

Get your face naked to the world, and the asphyxia might be natural arterial, the age might run, the resentment can kill and the experience can nurture. The atonal textures and the time might give you a chance to heal. The submission devours you and that feminine beast locked up in your throat gets reformed.

And this atavistic craziness that intertwines us prevents us from creating knowledge about the end. Those silent hours, those moments of comprehension will be always in my memory.

You can't always like a bit of everything, like a child, it gets hard... and I miss that.