Because To Write, One Must Truly Suffer.

Nothing Can Last Forever. There Isn't Any Memory, No Matter How Intense, That Doesn't Fade Out At Last.

I Am Talking About Misery And All Of Its Implications.

There Was No Air; Only The Dead, Still Night Fired By The Dog Days Of August. Not A Breath. I Had To Suck In The Same Air I Exhaled, Cupping It In My Hands Before It Escaped. I Felt It, In And Out, Less Each Time…until It Was So Thin It Slipped Through My Fingers Forever. I Mean, Forever.

Because To Write, One Must Truly Suffer.

No One Knows Better Than I Do How Far Heaven Is, But I Also Know All The Shortcuts. The Secret Is To Die, When You Want To, And Not When He Proposes. Or Else To Force Him To Take You Before Your Time.