"WHATEVER YOU WANT..."

feeling basic, honest, and fourteen-year-old-like.

there's absolutely nothing more sincere than a curse word in a love declaration.

the best love-hurt-teen-song... therefore the most honest:

CREEP
(Radiohead)
When you were here before,
Couldn't look you in the eye
You're just like an angel,
Your skin makes me cry

You float like a feather
In a beautiful world
I wish I was special
You're so fucking special

But I'm a creep,
I'm a weirdo
What the hell am I doin' here?
I don't belong here

I don't care if it hurts,
I wanna have control
I want a perfect body
I want a perfect soul

I want you to notice
when I'm not around
You're so fucking special
I wish I was special

But I'm a creep
I'm a weirdo
What the hell am I doin' here?
I don't belong here, ohhhh, ohhhh

She's running out the door
She's running out
She run run run run...
run... run...

Whatever makes you happy
Whatever you want
You're so fucking special
I wish I was special

But I'm a creep,
I'm a weirdo
What the hell am I doin' here?
I don't belong here

I don't belong here..."

what do you do when you comprehend perfectly? When you know you'd do the exact same thing... but still.... "you're so fucking special......."

all at once. vortex. static vortex.

When I read the well-known words "IN EUPHORIA I'M BRUISED"
I perfectly understood.... this:

Strange how much of people rubs in through skin. How what I feel has everything to do with what you feel. Like this: not the same feeling, but the form of feeling, the way of feeling what is given to us at the moment… this eye-sight, this blindness, or this roughness throughout it all: that rubs in. I sense that my view (my skin view) of this landscape is the one I pick up from your exposed veins. It’s the one that I feel through you: this confused, fragile roughness… This stumbling on hands, this strength clutch on to a sense that is more than anything: uncertain. This certainty in a mess of hair and feelings. This raw sex in the midst of dreams of tender embraces. This single moment after months of hours. This step into the ditch, when it’s actually filled, with skin and bones, with a grab and a moan. This excitement, this rush… this static rush. You are new, a mess of new in a strangled still old. And your mystery eyes rubbed some of the colors and blackness you see into mine.