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"The implosion is the opposite of the explosion. It occurs when the external pressure to an object is greater than that inside and this difference is large enough to break the strength of the latter. It suddenly occurs at the fracture resistance and throws debris into the interior of the object. "

I no longer listening.
He continues to speak but his voice is muffled, as if through a tunnel.
He talks and I think of feathers.
Or rather, to snow. A thick carpet of snow that puts the world on mute and on which I am crushed gently to the first of his words.

So this is an implosion into space?

Hardly a sound, a hissing sound at impact, a whisper at idle. As a crash that would last for hours. Around me, everything revolves with exaggerated slowness. I do not recognize anything. I set my feet to control the staggers and focus on snow, the silence that came over me, heavier than lead, which seeps into my stomach, my chest and into my mouth. I sink slowly into the soft ice.

So that's ... implosion in a vacuum. Where nothing is spreading, or swallow anything and everything that disappear over time with a hiss. Where the breath sucked inward as away everything in its path, words, gestures, reasons, and takes all enclosed in a space rotten there, somewhere between my sternum and my diaphragm. I swallow this story and its meaning smithereens biting my building.

I would leave it, I want the noise around me, cries, tears, broken glass to lacerate my disgust for the lead in my throat flew to smash him. I want the sound and grand gestures, I want mouths wide open.

But I'm sinking more and sit on the steps slippery. I can not speak, I can not move. Ice imprisons me and I hold my breath for it never frees me.

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Theory The Big Scratch L irreparable.

Shit night * again *

I
capital capital capital
love, liebe, amore, AST, ser, Kärlek, kahnu, Dashuri, gharau, mahabr, prem, Ishta, myiya, Ai rakkaus, sarang, koerlihed, merout, armastus, agapi, ahava, serelem, pyaar, asmore, meile, okwagala, tia, kjoerlighet, mahabât, Ljubov, ljubezen, here, Cham-inch mbëgeel ...

I had a lump of love abroad I could not deploy to water my kisses multilingual. I created a language better than Esperanto.
I created with my tongue too much capital.

I took my capital and have thrown out the window, did flee in pools of plasma, the virtual body pillow hundred times beloved. I wasted in running it in windows closed, reflective windows that return what you do not want more windows that clutter spoils launched the unnecessary.

Sub plasma, my love has slipped under my eyes and was liquefied.

And I'm here without listening.
How to sleep when it's vague in my head, when it pulsates like a sob, when it came over me and I'm wet to the bone anchor in my stomach where my ventricles beat, tempered by the waves wriggle, by the raging sea inside of my head, the sea that wakes when the waters when it sprinkles.

And every evening, under the window, I hear voices, voices of children, the voice of my child crying.

So I roll from one end to l'autre de l'autoroute, attendant qu'un camion vienne barrer le bitume.

Je roule et je m'arrête.
J'attends le CRASH, le BOUM, le SPLASH.

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I'm dumb and dying and cannot conjure The Energy to Care


My stupidity is clumsy and careless
My excuses they're empty and thoughtless
I speak with indifference
If I apologize I don't see the point
If you have to try to be sincere
So accept my silence
Cause I've got nothing to say

I lack beliefs to dictate my actions
I am the motion of my daily attractions
They've taken my mind
And left a few frustrated attempts
To recycle or salvage whatever lef of myself
I'm running through water
When I should just swim

My room's like a vacuum tonight
Our lives only have the values we chose to apply
The silence like oil swirls
And comes to life

I know I'm not gone yet but time's running out
I'll accept my destiny, spend my time getting drunk
And I'll hurrah with the corpses
And pretend what I feel is real
We'll toast suicide with our abandoned eyes undertoning all our cheers
And we'll suffer without protest
Until we can't feel a thing

My room's like a vacuum tonight
Dark silhouettes heave under drunken sight
The silence like oil swirls
And comes to life

My stupidity is clumsy and careless
My excuses they're empty and I speak thoughtless

With indifference If I apologize I do not fucking see The Point
If You Have To Try To Be So accept my sincere

silence Cause I've got nothing to say

Sight like december

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Follow the Yellow Brick Road. To

* * Since I am fearful

I walked right on the way home, I walked right, sure of my steps, eyes planted on the horizon, breath quiet, straight hair, I walked calmly over the cobbles polished neither hot nor cold, just room temperature. I proceeded step by step, in penance, and the forest was far behind me, I think, far behind me.

And then, how do you say, and then you pushed me and in the scramble, you took my hand you were coming in the opposite direction on the path and in the scramble, how do you say, you've iced my hand. I was frozen there all surprised that cold in my hand was burning all my limbs and my head exploded. I was frozen there, like myself once cracked like mud undergoes differences in weather. I was frozen there and I took your hand on the way my legs and replaced the fuel transfused. And I follow you now, I'm, I'm hooked, I'll am aware, disheveled, speechless, eyes planted on the back of your head, behind your eyes planted on the horizon. And it's not that I do not like, it's not that I do not like to trust your voice, your warmth and your cold recraquelée me to put my feelings in all interstices I plugged gaps before the stampede. Not that I do not like, your hair in my horizon or your shoulders for any indication. But what I have left to me, when you let my hand on the way that I would not recognize from watching your neck? What is left for me to me when I have longer enough momentum to force me to trace your footsteps? You'll be there, you, to teach me to walk without you? What is left for me to me when you'll have more need of me?

What I have left to me when I must be a woman without a man, when I'll have to relearn how to move forward on the right path, sure of my steps, eyes planted on the horizon, the wind calm , flat hair? What will I use the feminine here, this burst balloon that had so much fun? Take me there again beat me and I swell with block patches? Should this time to take another path, another path that you, before the puncture, before reaching the horizon?

I have no answers to that, you know, no answer to that. Then I shake your hand for you not the cowards and I shake so hard I shake again until you stop you until you let go of you and resume my route on the cobblestones polished - and under anesthesia.