Intoxication dû mer, du soleil.

Too tired to sit still. Barely breathing, too weak to stand up.
The fluent blood felt sticky inside the veins, every heart beat hurted. The air that barely came across the throat became water inside, taking away tiny cords of the life left.
Sick in the middle of the tiniest bed. Bleeding water from the pores. The screams wouldn't reach anyone who would care. Was there someone, anyone from all of those which I talked to, which I showed my will for support, my inner strength, was there someone outside the room who would have enough hope inside for helping a brat like this? I had one name on mind. Should I? I will talk about her, maybe, if I get on my feet again. Thirst. Call her. The hope of knowing that she would absolutely answer and agree to help kept me up. For hours.
The rain made a strange symphony which I like, I could accept that as a sayonara. The pride of being strong enough, was I? Am I? How about all the times I've been wrong? What about the powder and the dirt? All the times the rice was not ready but still... What about the sea?
What about the wet toothbrush reflecting the tiredness? What from the pain? What from the sweetness of success? Call her. Call her.
 You are still alone. And you will always be. But if I call, the no will make me loose the hope. Hope is what keeps me here. Still. Breathing, bleeding, dreaming of pasts where everything was simpler. When I could keep my eyes open and blink on choice. 1 Rimbaud, 0 me.
Faim
Si j'ai du goût
C'est ne guère,
Que pour la terre et le pierre,
Je déjeune toujours de l'aire.
Les roc, les charbons, le fer.
Le loup? Or Le salade? Or Mangez?
Mqngew le cqllieux aue un bruse, les vielles pierres de egliese pqnse sqîes dqns les vqille grissssssssssssssssssssss
Gris gris.
And my French is so bad. But my memory is worse. Why can't I just get to a point where I was still playing, risking it all, never taking too seriously not even the sickness. And now for a bit of insanity, I am here, hopeless, surrounded by 37 million of nice people which will always help me to get anywhere I ask. I never asked to be here. Irashaimasen! Irashaimasen! Welcome, welcome. But welcome to what? The fridge will be as empty as the one Murakami drawed in the second bakery attack. And I don't like Murakami, I feel that he keeps on talking about the paradise he had drown and he will show us, but he won't. Who am I to not like him? A reader. Just that. A moribund reader. A bleeding, not breathing reader. Take the opinion as it is more useful. Rimbaud was right about the hunger, but I eat too much air, too much metal. I drank it melted, with soo much sugar. Menowarionegaishimasu. Always menowari. The heart hurts and now the head. Twenty million neurons are tickling, and now I do could sleep. The broken and dried lips play the jigsaw of perfection. And how beautiful! When things match, when things are made to be match. The itch it is evywhere. I feel sleepy, my eyes are closing. Call her. The throat closes more. Gris gris grisáceo. Qué bonita palabra. Me recuerda a níspero. Gris gris.  Call her. I don't even know why I write in English. My French is perfect. My memory is perfect. Are we a jigsaw?
Good morning Tomigaya. The sun had raised and sink so long ago, so many times. Call it Edo, Jimbocho or Shimokitazawa. Past, Past, present. No matter the order. Present future, past. Present past, future present, future past. Future future. Le loup. Le salad. La araignée. Mangez. Elle est retrouvée, Qui? Le éternité. C'est la mer mêle au soleil. La mer mêle au soleil.  There is no place nor time for love in Tokyo. There is no place nor time to love in Tokyo. There is no love. There is no place in Tokyo. There is no time in Tokyo. There is no place. There is no time. There is no Tokyo. There is love. Just love. Without just.
LOVE