I posted this photo I had found one Sunday last October.
Nearly a year later and it has become pertinent again.
Haven't posted any written stuff in a while, mainly focusing on photography. Now I want to write something, but at the moment I seem only to be thinking in worn out clichés - blood and bleeding, knives, tears, broken glass and shattered dreams (that one's a doozy), pain and suffering... the works. Perhaps they are worn out because in an instance of blinding pain one can't think with frills, so they write what comes to mind - let the words bleed out till you go from dumb with pain to numb with pain and can think straight again.
How do I feel?
Well, my heart is in pain.
Like what kind of pain?
Um... Sharp-ish.
As if you got stabbed?
Yeah! That's it!
Write it down you'll feel better.
Was probably genius the first couple times, but they ruined it for the rest of us.
In France they say if a women gets raped, it's her own fault... no, not only in France, happens here too. Fault, fault - what is fault? What is innocence if your prosecutors have made up their minds and turn a blind eye even before you can attempt to prove they are wrong? Doesn't even matter. Proof - is there even such a thing... Actually? Bend things backwards and twist them up till you're body is physically sore from the mental gymnastics. Human pretzel.
I am so sick, so so very sick.
Goodnight Sunday.

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