Bukowski says,
“it will never
let go
with the women
you live with
or wherever you
go, supermarkets,
bazaars, hang-glider
meets, it will
find you, maul you,
piss over you, let
you know
about it
again.
and there will be
nobody
you can talk to
about it.
Things are going to get bad. It's the old feeling, the addiction. The want to be swept away, the idolization, the wish-fulfillment that never leads to any tangible reality. How can it; it's not real. It's what dreams are made of and why love songs are written. God, I don't want to do this. It's already too late. Mazzy Star is on. I'm holding on with a fading grip to what I've built. Help. You can't help. No one can help. There is nobody you can talk to about it.
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