How high we can get. But if you appreciate the lows, those heights seem too out of reach. A life crippling depression will be your new escape. Those bottles will just be ornaments. Those pipes will just be pieces that leave you with a sickness in your stomach. Even tobacco will be seen as weakness against practicality of good old-fashioned suffering. As a matter of fact, that is the only ring you’ll wear among jewelry. The suffering. People will know you by your skinny jeans, by your emo hairdo. How dark clothing matches your sad smile. And in the darkness, you feel at home. Why can’t anyone understand? We are here to explode stars. Nothing is permanent but despair. I haven’t felt good since I was naive innocent faith. And my war will be won in pain. But wait, you feel the same way? Then dearest me, can we celebrate by- I don’t know, how else can we celebrate pain than trying to get high? Bite my skin to keep me grounded in reality. But don’t hurt me because I’ve been hurt all along.
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