обмылками слов - Жена Вийона - текст песни, слова, перевод, видео

Hate?

Weakness

Anger?

No - it's theft, or rather, ugliness.

I lost at nobility.

And there's nothing left in me at all.

From the perspective of healthy grief, a person gradually goes through a series of sequential stages.

First comes denial of what happened. You can usually drown it out. I drowned myself in alcohol until I felt sick, just to get some sleep.

Then comes pain, eternal and loving. Those who haven't been sick don't know what it means to writhe in bed.

Pain chokes you, and breathes, and makes you toss and turn until dreams finally kill your desire to wake up.

After the pain, you feel a little empty, even more than empty, as if a universe the size of you and a city of millions has been devoured within you.

Quiet, scary, and most importantly, a sad feeling, as if nothing in this universe ever existed except alcohol and grief.

Then you might notice an upswing, especially while drinking some nasty cocktails in a small two-room house.

Your stomach starts to upset, you run out of money, waiters. They advise you to obediently leave a tip and call a taxi, and you're at peace.

Never owe anyone anything, but do evil to yourself through kindness to others, and your heart turns into a honey cake bought at a 24-hour convenience store near your home, accompanied by vodka, which you'll drink with that slob, the terribly real Masao Horiki.

Eventually, fear should go away completely, meaning it should remain the tart taste of almost-ripe sloe in the memories that keep popping up in your head.

Then you can talk about happiness, someone else's pillowcase, family.

Again, yeah,

What kind of happiness are we even talking about? Happiness isn't a game of preference or any other card game where a losing card suddenly becomes a winning one.

Happiness doesn't come from stolen goods, or from mishima, or from a huge amount of work, or from hundreds of dollars spent on taxis and tips.

There's no sleep.

There's no word.

There's no speech.

There's not even any swearing.

You're not the only person.

Never. No one can be called a human being; a flawed person can't be called a human being at all, on principle.

I spotted this in an intellectual's handbook,

in the chapter on one's own ambitions.

Nothing ever exists and nothing ever will.

You'll have to put up with this.

Even if you're alone without a pillowcase or a pillow.

Even if you're a monster yourself.

Just so long as you live.