The world is bright and shines on us.
We sit around at tables, starting senseless conversations about women, booze, automobiles and the craftsmanship of the new james bond movie.
We are all alone.
We create these images of ourselves, not for others to watch, but to be look at by ourselves.
We want to be interesting, but we need to be unique.
We need to feel that way; otherwise we feel pain or nothing at all.
This is not the ugly truth.
This is about false information.
False information, we share with others.
False information we give to ourselves, just to be satisfied.

I want to be a russian author, just to put my feelings down in liquorish words for critics to understand and no-one else.
I want to be a firefighter being on call at the morning of 9-11, just to be remembered.
I want to be me again.
Alone, if I can.
But if not, not without you.

Like before
I once stand in front of a movie theatre and had seen all of the movies they showed.
I went to a bar I knew and got drunk. I got drunk before.
Drunk by liquor I like. I know that, because I drank it before.
I then met a girl I’ve met about ten times before.
I kissed her, like about six times before.
I didn’t sleep with her, like I did the last three times. And afterwards I felt bad about it, like I felt before.
I went home, where I lived, and sat down, where I sit.
I called up a random number, just to fell unique, but I heard an automatic message, like unknown times before.