The things that I want: a smoke, a whiskey for the sun to shine. I want to sleep, to remember to forget. I want unlimited ammo and a license to kill these lazy days.
The past is a gaping hole. Your only chance is to turn around and face it. But it’s like kissing the lips of your dead love, darkness waiting in the hole of her mouth. I can’t remember who said it. Bullet type.
We are willing to suffer, to die for the things we care about. For love, for the right choices.
If the only choice you’ve got is to do the wrong thing, then it’s not really the wrong thing, it’s more like fate.
It’s all a matter of perspective, tied to time and place, love and friendship, life and death of you and your passions.
Sometimes there are no choices. Nothing but a straight line.
The illusion comes afterwards, when you ask “What if?”, when you look back, see the branches, like a pruned bonsai tree, or a forked lighting.
If you had done something differently, it wouldn’t be you, it would be someone else looking back, asking a different set of questions.
The things that I want: a smoke, a whiskey for the sun to shine. The things that I get. The things that maybe I don’t actually need.