Neredeyse ölmüş olanların kendilerine has bir kokusu vardır.
"The death, then, of a beautiful woman is, unquestionably, the most poetical topic in the world."
-Edgar Allan Poe
“Kötü bir anıyı unutmanın en iyi yolu güzel bir tanesiyle değişmektir.”
The living are dangerous. They inflict pain. They’re so fueled by greed, a lust for useless material shit, a smoldering desire to fit in . . . and they’ll hurt and betray and destroy whomever they must in order to get anywhere close to all of it. None of them are any different.
I want death neither behind, nor ahead, of me, but around me and within me.
Some nights I go to the graveyard because it’s always been the only place where I can truly relate to people.
Morgues are great and all, but none of those people have been dead more than a couple of days. I’ve been dead inside for a long time. When I dream of camaraderie, I’m surrounded by skeletons, flesh barely clinging to their
ancient bones.
I suppose there’s just something about meeting someone who’s even more fucked up than you are.