The Girl Next Door Is Always Screaming
crying or complaining, and the way she's getting beaten, it's almost
arousing. I cannot differ the sounds anymore, they all seem like a
relentless buzzing discomfort. fuck this treacherous imagination of mine, if
you'd only knew the complexity of the scenarios emerging from there. it
feels like a bad soap-opera, yet you cannot help yourself from watching the
next episode. she must be so beautiful, I guess that is why I hate her and
her voice that much. the mystery in itself, of her real self, is far more
interesting than knowing. introspection, yes I do fear the return of the
ever-questioning process. it has forced me to review most of the basics
concerning females. I hear them, over and over again, throughout the night.
I don't remember the last time I slept, and... and I'm not feeling well,
here, alone with my thoughts... staring at a blank wall. battered and
bruised, bleeding on the floor. worthless piece of meat. I know she's
crushed. but I am useless, unable to save her, and maybe I don't want to. oh
how I beg for complete silence...