Book: Drawings on the blood

Tears and the wind were well suited to each other.

He didn't know why she stopped cutting my arms.
It's just no longer worked: the pain in this way never came out.

If sitting for long in one place, begin to take root.

What you see here, except pickled in whiskey liver, and the ashes of a burnt-out dreams?

Sometimes he met people who in other circumstances could be called friends.
But as soon as he left the home place, these friends were gone, erased like an eraser with a sheet of reality.

"Bird's country", - he thought again Trevor. It was a place where you can do magic, a place where no one will touch you. Maybe this place really is on the map. Maybe this place in the depths of your soul.
Trevor began to believe that his own Bird country is the pen moving across the paper, the weight of the notebook, the creation of worlds out of ink, sweat and love.

Sometimes dad more than nervous. When he got like that Trevor the skin felt coming from his blind rage. The rage that did not know such words as "wife" and "sons."

Enough. That way is madness.

To love someone - order, and fuck - too bad. But if you do both with one and the same person, it will give him too much power over you; it will allow him to run his hands up your personality, will give him a share of your soul.

The day rolled along the curve to hell.

If you love someone, really love him, don't want you to take it with you when you yourself will die?

Suddenly it struck like a thunderbolt: this, too, is the power. The same tangible, like a punch in the face, the same unconditional, like the crunch of a skull under the hammer. The power to make a person go crazy from pleasure and not from fear and pain. To keep his power in every cell of the body to another.

If you love someone, it is necessary to thoroughly know his body inside and outside. You have to be ready to taste it, breathe it, wallow in it.

The world - entirely red with gold, sweat, smoke, the joy with the pain.