A Raging Madness
What is my weekend and other lies.
My Dearest,
I promised you a secret garden when you signed up, I never said anything about a real place. But I know you like to find me in your inbox twice a month. Like a date.
Welcome to my inner world sweetie. Something wrong? Try to reboot before Monday. Below is my Sunday trashcan, where the best of my digital life is to be found.
What is real? What is better?
Escape. I know you hit this key on your keyboard hard when your life software bugs. You tried to be a goodman, even if you’re a woman. Mad things gonna come.
And it all gets fat, smelly, and slobbery. And you have to swallow all, not to awake the monster in the room. I get that. And, still, you dream of a better tomorrow.
I am not a serial killer. I had a morning shot of vodka with
. We talked about the French poets. I don’t remember. The acid patch maybe.
Later on, I talked to
about the Trash Man and a body dump in a basement where bodies are sealed in 40-gallon steel drums full of salt.
I am not that philanthropic monster helping the mad souls but I agree, I may take this business of A Cleaning Service too seriously. Washing my mind in the process.
Sorry to have disrupted your Sunday. Time to get back to real life. Time to start a washing machine. Washing clothes to be virgin white clean for tomorrow.
Carpe diem. It is sunny here and I need a shot. Where’s the vodka my dear?
Love always,
Sissi
the vodka is where you left it, in bed
The line between fantasy and reality is constantly a blur...example Victoria De Cock....fantasy? Reality? Contrived mental pleasure? And why can't one walk away?