All priests love children. All lightning strikes in different places. Not all soldiers die in the same war. The freckled girl fucks with me and then leaves. She uses my heart as an ashtray and leaves. Everyone's hell bent on ripping something out of me, I don't care, they can keep doing it, I'm not going to let go. God and the devil are playing my luck in a poker game and neither has aces in that hand. I appear in the middle of a city. A burning city. A homeless man keeps shooting stars in jam jars. All my bridges have fallen down, a very old man tells me. The city burns. It doesn't matter. All the priests will still love children. All the lightning will still strike in different places. And all the soldiers will still die. But not in the same war. Now I'm at a party. On a rooftop. Everybody's dancing and I'm quiet. Everybody's shouting and I'm quiet. Everybody's is up and I'm down. I'm always going against the flow of time. The kids are hitting harder and harder. I don't think that hitting hard is important, hitting first it is. All the punches hurt when it's cold, especially the ones aimed at the heart. The party is over and no one stays to help you clean up. The moon laughs at you.
YOU ARE READING
I.C.U
General Fiction"Debbie Harry and Kurt Cobain; Luca Prodan; a city that burns; a freckled girl who leaves; a war on a mysterious island and a cursed writer are the flashes that run through the mind of a teenager who suffered a motorcycle accident."
