.:: My Hypermnesia ::.

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من گاهى وقتها هم دپرس نيستم.

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دروغ چرا. از اين همه بدبختى خسته شدم. بى تو بودن را بيشتر از هميشه درك ميكنم. اين را به حساب نامه ى ٣٣ بگذار كه هيچ وقت ننوشتمش.

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once i had a dream. i was a wolf. but not the kind of wolf you would want to be ... have you ever attacked yourself? was it from every direction, or just some direction? that night when i woke up i decided that i wanted to die sooner in peace than later in pain.

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اشک میریزم. بر مزار دختری که هیچ وقت نداشتمش.

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that, there,
that's not me.

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you know what this song is only if you know what this song is. and you don't know what this song is if you don't know what this song is.

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گاهی آدم عاشق نیست و فقط فکر میکد عاشق است
بد تر از آن آنکه گاهی عاشق میشوی و خودت هم خبر نداری

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ایمیل های یک خطی که تو را به ادامه دادن و به داستان های رنگارنک و قشنگ امیدوار میکنند ...

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اون تصویرم که دختره و پسره روی پل عابرپیاده بالای بزرگراه واستاده بودنم تبدیل شده به تصویر یه نفره روی پل روی رودخونه.

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yes, tis the pulse of the life! my fears were in vain! i wake i breathe, and myself again. don't feel a thing.

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it was an evening like every other evening. it wasn't warm. it wasn't cold. up on the hills, the two men, they we friends. unlike any other wednesday, they wouldn't talk. one would dig a grave, the other would lay down and smell the soil of his grave. he would be buried, alive. not for long to die, but long enough to feel the death. he needed to die, even if a fake death, to find his passion for life once again.

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به قول شاعر مرگ با غزت به از زندگي با خفت. يا يه همچين چيزى. سيريسلى.

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من اين خودمو نميخوام.