there is no deliverance. there is an imagination of deliverance. there is an angel of deliverance but it has no wings.

there is no love. there is an imagination of love. one cares for what is not quite there and when it leaves it has no wings it has no feet but it leaves even though it never really arrived.

only the pain is real. only the waste is real. only the dripping of the faucet is real. only the empty bed is real.

one must finally consider the real things: most creatures are incapable of love. almost every walking talking living creature is incapable of love.

this is not inconsiderate of them-- it is like asking them to have three eyes when they only have two. it's like asking them to have what they don't have: frogs are frogs dogs are dogs, the mould is set.

to imagine another would love you is to imagine that you have exceptional qualities that others do not. love is a form of selectivity and the judgements of most people have long ago gone awry been sent numb and addled by their existence-- by what they do to exist by what makes them think they live by what makes them think they love.

when you look at that empty bed do not always consider it a defeat-- a sexual starvation, perhaps, but there's more room to stretch the legs and the arms. there's room to consider and to think and to wait, and if that one doesn't arrive any time and forever realize that doves need doves crickets need crickets swordfish need swordfish fleas need fleas hogs need pigs pigs need hogs.

the river runs alone. there is only one sun.

and sometimes alone when the agony seems greater than the gut-mind can bear laughter arrives.

in small rooms laughter arrives you begin to laugh the gift arrives this laughter and it runs up and down the walls until you get tired and the walls get tired and then you sleep and then you sleep and sleep and sleep.

charles bukowski

was bleibt, ist deine liebe deine jahre voller leben das leuchten in den augen aller die von dir erzählen millionen sterne in der nacht und einer aber flimmert in der ferne und verblasst doch ich werde ihn erinnern

ich werd ihn erinnern.

in der wut verliert der mensch seine intelligenz.