An invoce from death

I reckon one of the gears needs to be changed. And all these disgusting and stenching grease, all over me; has left me estranged. Away and beyond from any kind of humane thinking. Though why do I ought to feel those humane traits, towards and out these diseased leeches? But what am I writing for God's sake? I have become blasphemous towards what I am ready to give more of it, in spite of spite—they'd honour me, despite. I remember as I try to write the suffocating grease away! That I wasn't like this... But there's no soap for this industrial stench. There is no way out of this dooming toil!! ... But to simply be part of it and—conform.

This place... Shouldn't have come. Home is worse; even colder, but it is a familiar vile—this is a vile that I don't like. A vile that I feel that it don't belongs to me; that I or my ancestors helped not cause—a foreign and alien vile. It fooled me into another loose screw of the meaningless pile. Though I am sick of it, thus I will succumb to its. Oh but how I will though. I will, but I want the biggest prize! I am going to make sure to be its best. Oh but I will... I have been waiting for too long. I will! I swear to God, this time ... I ... Will.

I intentionally dropped the pen, but I lifted it again—yes, intentionally; I swear. There is only one name in this book, the first and last—or so I hope? Dear lord... What I have done. I have so wickedly arranged myself in and around this intoxicating smoke of human aberration that somehow I have a list now; a black list inside a black book. How pathetic... That I need to write a list for my revenges, as if wrong doings need planification. As if all of these leeches think about being the worst of leeches—if they happen to think in the first place. Perhaps the one truly sick among all of us, has been me all along. Perhaps I am the one with the disease—for I think and never forget. But it is too late now. I cannot stand another pull out. I won't suffer more regret. I can't put myself any more down into yet another step below; there are no more cracks in the corners left...

It's time for my expendable glory. My days... Why did I choose black? Am I so pathetic as to make my supreme misery and predestined injury of existence—a punch in the shape of a colour, instead of a punch right in the face?! Well, I already bought it; and everything else for the biggest and mightiest of all the punches! They will see... Oh but who am I kidding? Nobody would care; fire cannot tell from more fire. No matter if I outperform them.

I did everything my mother told me, step by step, instruction by instruction. I behaved a good boy, never was late. I wonder how is she, back in Kiev. Perhaps she does not even remembers me, and even if she does; she would be a lunatic—I am not the same. Mother, did I fail you, or did you fail me? Who failed whom? I don't even know anymore what is right or left.

I won't do anything until is dark; for I feel judgement even from consciousness. Eyes that do not see, hearts that do not feel; they say... And they are both right and wrong—depends. In this case it is so wrongly right that perhaps everything will get justified in the end of the end.

I am fairly certain that nothing would happen tonight again, as I always not do. As I always play around it; my little cozy and secret game. A fantasy I would say. It feels so good to finally do it! That I want to finally do it forever! I am sorry my friend in the rare case I actually do it; you've been the light within my darkness. But of course I won't... I should put the kettle on instead before you arrive. Yes, I will leave this for a minute and come back. I might play a bit with my game since the only joy there is besides around here; is to put the kettle on… …

My friend, allow me to complete this note for you. I hope you are sincerely resting, and truly from the bottom of your heart and soul; happy as a clueless little bird. You were the most amazing human being, that was why they could not comprehend you. You were indeed the sick one, though thank you for passing the sickness on to me—I will carry on with it… Perhaps the chair failed on your play, or perhaps you did intend that to happen. Be that as it may, I do not doubt a single bit that you are happy right now. If only i knew of this sickening virtue of subjective worth of you; for in the darkest of your days—you still bother to put the kettle on for me. Indeed you are sick! How disgusting of you, to think beyond yourself. Thank you for being sick. So long, brother.