So I give myself a starter punch for every day breakfast. Blood is running from my lip and I drink it. It's salty with a touch of iron. The most tasty spirit. Spirit guide. The mighty one who tortures me everytime I waste my time. Hah, it is so ridiculous to go through every originally same day this way. Simply known directions from inside. No idea about the rocky road that constantly bothers me to rock. No care about bones that can be seen around, sticking from the lime green grass. Bones of those who found a piece of peace. If the hippie haven or heaven exist. But I probably don't use enough drugs nor I do believe in God.../...good.
So as Churchill suggested... you know, everyone knows what he said. Yeah, I'm keeping that bitter taste on the back part of my tongue all the time. Try to change it and I will spit it to your face like a juicy venom and ruin your life by showing you how does the human universe mirror in my eyes. It is boring to be ultimately happy. Come on guys, Vinnetou died, nothing is gonna be the same on this world!
And the only natural consolation for staying alive is - consider me finally being crazy - love. Or to be catched and trapped by inspirations. Your own touch from the heart. Kiss of the aura you possess. Few days ago I texted a private message and I want it to become louder. You are aware of my philosophy anyway. It was about muses who are dancing around my head whispering all those stories about how lovely and cruel is the realm in which I'm living now. And you can only find it when you lose your fear. And then magick works.
You already know several notes that appeared to be here. From my czech written jogs in labyrinths of mind. Some quotes raised from the deepest corners within that I was able to reach. A bit sprinkled with customs of mine. Like that I'm obsessed by trying not to use the same words for the same thoughts and feelings twice. Not only during writting one article. That is, I suppose, the way how my website grows. And the reason why I don't feel a necessity of translation. Because - actually - I'm still filling that white place with one and the same one thing. Myself.
Roaming around, looking divine and thinking in a stupid speech. Stepping forward picturing shadows in a foreign language. Without a chance to express the sweet and sour sauce of emotions flowing through my veins. I'll definitely appreciate some criticism from grammar nazis. It won't hurt me. And if so, I can always strike back or pack my stuff and run home to kiss my beloved parents cheeks and ask for an extra money. Only if I had guts to be a tiny selfish coward without that bloody hero complex that bites my face until I cross another cozy comfort zone.
Well... I've never been affraid to be a wolf. Why would I be scared to shapeshift into Hound. Hit me. Hit me hard.