Season in hell

If Rimbaud did it, I can do it, because he's my friend. I just love this title and it perfectly explaines what I've been going through. This is my diary when I was quitting to drink alcohol after few months of intense drinking of red wine. Here's what I wrote that night:

That! What Jazz musicians like Coltrane have been played, I will write the very day I become completely relaxed in psychosis. Like a bunch of qoutes together. Without any need for bullshit.

Haiku prose.

I don't wanna listen to anybody's music untill I record my own. I want people in my band to be my audience.

Sound of silence is a song made in moment of inspiration but it's a stupid song.

Geniality is specialty.

I seek for authorities because I don't have any will to think beside forces who aim for heroin.

Hell IS a drastic fall of a serotonine or what I would call a delay from the boob of the Mother Earth.

Hell is to be defeated.

Suspicion is an excuse.

Writing is romantic.

What else?

I had to talk about a little butterflies... they were against the base.... it smells good, the flowers, smells, the field... these crazy growse my mother indeed sure be making punches all the way right hills are smoking pilot inside groovy....

Nonsense

Is every self limitation sign of a self control?
How big intelligence has to be to set up some limits? How big work?!

Only ganja has a taste.
Masturbation is a fraud.
Serotonine is getting much more subtle.
i mean, it's getting much harder to get it... is it because I'm growing old?... or because of my extravagance? ho -hou. I need 12 beers in 6 pm. It's no joke.
4 to warm me up.
4 to refresh myself.
4 to go to sleep, however.

The Feeling that some rythm has to be fasted to make a good groove iz nonmeasurable hell of illusions.

I write down these truths not to remind myself or to limit myself but to know where I am in this very moment.
Somebody will love me if they have a clue that I will do good to them on the path we both feel coming.
I write to myself.

I am very lonely. I am afraid that later I will make something understandable out of this text.
I wanna travel acrros the jungles, that makes sense.
2 (secondly)
I am afraid this text has lost every form.
Nobody can follow this anymore.
Nobody there to tako out their money and buy a round of beers, out on his own.

I don't know if I have the energy to play as an imitator. I need teathers to show my self and not some stupid bars. I don't want to be comercialized, but I have to?

I want my audience to be Jazz musicians or I don't know, some crazy people that just will have orgasms or just everybody playing together, making music. I want to lose my ego surrounded by geniuses. I want to be taken by the hand and led on the yards by the waterfalls.

I want to be heard when I am inspired and only when I am inspired. That would be perfect, right? How long would these values last?

Inspiration is something that requires a cold approach to be studied, but sometimes it takes too much of a burdon to do it.

I want to be needed and when I know I am needed I want it to be said clear and loud: LIKE I DO SAY: COULD IT REALLY BE THAT I AM FUCKING ALONE STANDING IN HERE LIKE THIS, RACIONALLY THINKING, EXPLAINING, CARING - I MUST BE MAD, RIGHT?

Is the world evil and only evil is there on a trone since ever and all ideals of good just take second place and first place always goes to evil hidden in a plastic soft dominant aesthetics of good, just to engage some long ago dulled instincts that still pretense themselves with reflects of a sudden emotionallity? That's how it seems to me sometimes, when I try to figure it out.

All those feelings that in some fucking dimension of this Planet there is a fucking award for all the truth lovers, sacrifisers, award in a shape of harmlessly keeping the good nobel qualities around. Nikola Tesla? Viktor Schauberger? Oh, and all those that died being 27? Anybody?

When I am low with serotonine, I can see more clearly what is being giving it to me, or, what is being taking it away.

All my problems and all my writings come from the troath. The troath is addicted to tobacco, alcohol, singing... talking yet has to be studied from this view, and it seems to me that talking too comes from there. Playing instruments or making music comes from the whole body, but everything else, all my sorrow and troubles come from my troath.

That's why I like beers. And my tongue is a problem maker, too. I already feel their fear to be revealed. My teeth are not innocent, too, espetially since I have paradenthosis, but the most of it is in troath. Maybe they all got fucked up because od my thoughts, my constant overthinking about everything? Poor guys.

Did my thoughts brought me to this complete resurection from the world? The world has no thoughts, no thinking, at least it seems to me to be like that, plus that all my attempts to think end up abstract when faced to the world. I do that because my thoughts haven't been recognised not even close as I needed them to be. Probably others never even saw the way to fight to get me?
It's paralising, but realizing how much effort it takes to wake up I understand that I would never even try anything if I wasn't in these difficult circumstances that push me further with all their power. I only want to drown in heroin or something like that, but some kind of fear saves me from it. It says that after all, I can change again, no matter what; it's not too late. It will be radical, but slowly this sometimes nonstandable feel in my troath, tongue, teeth start to vanish, dull, and those possible realities will be far away. This in what we choose is ALIVE. We must not wait for good times. We always have to experience the wholeness of the moment. It sounds like Bruce Lee, it sonuds impossible, but I SAW MANY TRUE EXAMPLES OF PEOPLE WHO ARE SO, AND I SAW MYSELF IN MY VISIONS TO BE LIKE THAT, IT'S JUST THAT IT SURPRISED ME SO MUCH THAT I FORGOT ABOUT IT.