/bs/ - backstory

Lately Ive been looking at numbers. They say, that only one time per year you can make wine. By this arithmetic, how much good wine can a guy make in her own lifetime?

Or is it just base pathos, misguided sadness that is just so blatantly banal that the interest of such a thought is in the person instead? All we can do now is to ask, and how much good wine did you make in your lifetime? The deathgrip massages my heart by this point, it only slightly pains me as if it was a cat jumping on my body from above

I hate numbers like that. Great writers, 60 and dead. The tone of the keyboards shifts to deafening call of annihilation. The hand of death massages my heart ever so slightly more, with enthusiasm and rhythm. And I, how can I find myself in those numbers?

Help me, Im lost in the tower of number, where nothing make sense. Where every digit is a portent of quick death, sudden execution of a predefined arrow from a predefined bow that is just around the corner and threatens me with force and vigor of a horse to shoot me. Shoot me dead, forever, in the random place on my body, with my head be taken as a trophy of posterity, of unrefined raw vagueness and empty space on the signing area of bureaucratic paper

Thirty. Crisises are rolling down from the mountain like avalanches, no escape from this manor of perpetual eclipse. The death hand grips my heart in an uncomfortable way, now it tells me that it owns the part of me, the only part that matters

And in this existence, what is left to do? Cry? What comes after crying? Prayer? Who do I pray for? God? The one who put me through this? The one who knew willingly that cruelty is abound and yet lets it be? How to become saint when all I think about is death. Where is the exit, from the digit tower. There is none

Not so long before the bell tolls. I live today and I feel, 24 hours. Visage appears before my eyes, the look of death, and with it the hand that was concealed now visible. The death looks into my eyes and massages my heart, grips it, plays with it, and all I can see in this visage is a slut that only desires and never takes no for an answer. I have been defeated by a whore of time that takes whats not its, who should be by any right be subject to own medicine

I live in a necessary delusion. Nothing would work otherwise, I must lie to stay sane. I must be a bastard version of a human to be human. And yet, this alone doesnt explain The Question, why try at all? Why continue? Why not just kill self?

And what I reply to this, fucker, is that I love this whore death who massages my heart like a bad bitch. I long for the squeeze, I long for the time when it takes my heart and squashes it with force, completely destroying it, leaving nothing in place. I long for the release, but the fear speaks and it says: Im fine, nothing to be done, all that could was done

And in this circumstances I see clearly that all I have are my two hands in which I put extraordinary regard to. With those two, it is like two hands of death, thats so good of hands I think of them. And yet, all they can do is write. I dont know how to count numbers with my fingers