alot,
too much
vodka.

a singer,
a drunk,
a sexy
cop.

a youngster,
a drunk,
dressed all in black
girl -
reaching out.

they held hands.
they dance.
their necks sensually touch.
they vomit.

BLEURGHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH.


ps. i have came to realization,
for me, it doesn't starts with a kiss, it never starts with a kiss at all.
everything starts with holding hands.
once you are close enough to hold hands, you are close enough for anything.

he's always;

10 steps ahead of me

10 cliff tops ahead of me.

he's always reached it before me.

insanity or being content, he's always been there.

he's always been unreachable highness for me.

"Ta cảm ơn trần gian này lắm lắm
Nhờ nơi đây ta biết được đau thương
Ta cứ ngỡ trần gian là cõi thật
Thế cho nên tất bật đến bây giờ
Ta cứ ngỡ xuống trần chơi chốc lát
Nào hay đâu ở mãi tới hôm nay"

-bùi giáng

argh.argh.argh.

ew i think i need to starve myself.

that's all i gotta say today.

they gave the red cake i made away.

just pictures.

2.

Vignolette walks to school, swallows Charlotte and stick him to the side of her jaw. The weather these days behave like a lover, only more predictable. Miserably, it is beautiful. Foggy and seducing like a morning cigarette from a dangerously beautiful pair of lips. Vignolette talks and chews her lips.

There is a magical space in school called lockers, only if they were webbed in lace. They contain the production of a creature's sweat and misery, flowing endlessly through on into pieces of paper. Besides, there is no light within magic. Neither is there light there. All magic are protect, and locked. So is this. By a chain of numbers, spinning in organized fashion, but secretly, chaotic invades the creature's heads.

Charlotte itches and aches lying breathlessly on the side of Vignolette jaw. The man folds himself into pieces, leaving Vignolette the woman, no extra or missing limbs on her earthy body. Now she is a woman, with faint smiles and dry lips. Isolate every single feature, and she is fine. A small vibration rushes through her throat, through the bumps on the surface of her tongue, and slips through a her lips. Words fly out cheaply and meaninglessly, like sudden rain on a day of bad weather, contaminating, and uninspiring. There are plenty of words that slip and fly out of different direction, some are directed to her, some aren't.

Vignolette feels impossible. The words that fly in and out of her create an iron cage. The reason that birds don't get out of those by flying out windy, watery vigorous sounds is because the impossibility of breaking the iron cage that they formed in their heads. So does Vignolette.

It's hard enough Vignolette drags herself around from one vacuum of strength and light to another. She drags twice the weight. The other half lies uneasily on the side of the jaw, waiting to rise but impossible to break out. And while Charlotte waits to rise, Vignolette sinks. Charlotte will drown, unwilling to go down with a will to wade through the crowded vacancy while Vignolette willingly, sinks.

when you became a boy,
your best girl friend becomes your lover.

now that you're a proper woman,
your best guy friend becomes your lover.

lovers lovers.

friends are betters.

if you want physical actions, find a stranger.

after all, alone is better.

ay. blabbing shit away from the point now.

charlotte.

Charlotte the pierrot is half alive with a permanent tear imprinted on his face. He is a proper man, with a few missing and a few extra limbs that is. The mirror and nature are betrayers. They swallow the truth happily, and all the living creatures on the face of the earth don't see the man in Charlotte.

Charlotte the pierrot is a dragger. He drags his body out of bed, leaving his head under the blanket. He drags his body from the past to the present, leaving the mess in his heart out of his chest. He drags over broken glass, spilled coffee, shattered hearts and all the rest. They don't all see at all the mess missing from Charlotte's head.

Charlotte the pierrot has bad habits that he imprisons his present in. He told me one dawn " new shoes raise my soul". And so he walks in high heels, ripping through rays of sunlight and breaking threads on the blanket of the night. The soles of the shoes fall apart along with his heart; and with a swallow bleeding heel he walks. Charlotte bites his nails to the death of his fingertips. Those that bleed as he tries to hold onto the doors that never fail to close and crush his tender fingers to their tender deaths.

Charlotte rolls out of bed. A box of shattered glass shake in his head, with sounds like solitude bells on a Christmas night. Charlotte rolls out of bed. A permanent tear heavy as lead, is permanently imprinted on his permanently sick face. Charlotte rolls out of bed. The cigarette's fire is dead; he inhales loneliness now. Charlotte rolls out of bed. He puts his silver collar bones with the piles of paper to shred. Charlotte will never again roll out of bed.

Am I Charlotte? Asked the petals glued onto the walls. The world is full of guessers, but their curiosity are locked in a box like Charlotte's inked ribs with empty halls.

nếu rằng kỷ niệm có màu,
thì nên là một màu trắng muốt.

nếu quanh năm vẫn vậy,
thì nên có nhiều sương mù và mây xám.

để khỏi thấy thời gian chạy dài,
kéo theo những phút giây nên ở lại.

"em muốn ôm cả đất
em muốn ôm cả trời
mà sao anh ơi,
mà sao, anh ơi -
không ôm nổi trái tim một con người."

những ngày nhiều mây xám, rất, rất, rất dài.