Oh death!

"Mi caso es, en resumen, el siguiente: He perdido por completo la capacidad de pensar o hablar coherentemente sobre ninguna cosa."

Death! Death! Oh, you really take your time! Oh, my most beloved, my most tender death! My sweetheart, my lover, my wife, my husband! Oh death! Why, why are you so late? Why are you always so late? I see life tearing you up, sadistically shedding your skin with the cruelest of smiles, and it feels terrible, it feels empty, it feels unfair to see something so unworthy take your rightful place. Death, you are too permissive, my dear. Oh my beloved. Why, I am waiting, but I desire you! I desire you right now, as soon as possible! I desire your absence of colour, I desire the pain of unrenewal. I desire the motionless stare, the handicrafted clock, the shabby underlings.
My infancy - Lost! I learned it all wrong! Tricked, I was always tricked. You offered yourself to me; yet I chose the offer of life, candy wrapped in paper, paper written with cocaine. I always loved the spines, you know? I was always attracted to the fire. I felt compelled to return my hand upon the attacking flower, yet things did not flourish quite right. You see, I was taught, I avoided you. Even at sleep I would try to reject your beautiful sapphire-ridden wedding veil. I was scared, scared of the scare. I was scared that dread would not be quite enough. I was scared that something would not be quite right if I was not scared. I was fucked up. I played with my toys. I made my worlds. I created, and destroyed. I was the Lord, and I thought I did not need submit to thee.
But oh, it is not submitting! It is not surrender! Oh your tender embrace, please, please! I desire you now, quickly, inmediately, painfully. I want my hand to burn. I want my neck to break. I want all the limbs of my body to start an atavic dance which I have never learned but they've always known and tricked me into not knowing. Scaring me off. Putting it down. Oh death. Death. Please. Pretty please? Pretty, pretty please. You're pretty. Beautiful. You're the maiden hiding behind the roses. I want to fuck you. I want to hold you. I want to kiss you and make everything stop going.
But you just won't come. Oh dear, I know the waiting makes it sweeter, but it's already unnecesary! I am ready! I don't care which minister you use, but come! Roses coming out of my neck! Cells becoming radical protesters! A mysterious and fatal twist of the neck! Quick, slow, painful, painless, I'll accept it all! Oh that I may even have the chance to die all the possible deaths, to taste the forbidden fruit in all its possible forms!

Curl up. Curl up. Curl up. Curl up. Curl up. Nothing happens. Doesn't come. Curl up. Maybe it will. Won't anyone have pity of a blind horse? My eyes don't really work much anymore. Adjectives come, but they do not reveal. They are not themselves. They are not here. Adjectives float, unsustained, unsuspected. Adjectives. Adverbs. Curl up. Holding a knife. Up to your neck, and you are deflowered! Lose your virginity, my dear, you can't hold up your virginity forever. Eros is an asshole; it's just Janos in a cool coat, that Janos which conforms the absolute and ridiculous equality of Apollo and Dionysus (Nietzsche, you idiot. You idiot. I love you, but it's you, and Blake, and Hoffman, and oh so many others. You're at fault. You're completely at fault. You. You. You. YOU. WON'T YOU COME OUT OF THE VEIL YOU FUCKING ASSHOLE. I want my Turin horse, too. I want to rid myself of attributes. A preentrance. A something. Just don't know. Just burn your face. CLOSE YOU FUCKER.)