Thoughts...of a vanishing mind.

Weaknesses, but poetic ones.

3. Weaknesses, but poetic ones.

Some basic but unknown rock band playing in the background, two of the guys were smoking Camels, two other girls wanted to, in the 6-chaired table. The sun arbitrarily hitting certain spots of the table, reflecting in the glasses, creating curious shadows diagonally. The sweet but strong scent of rum and cognac, some laughs. A pretty poetic circumstance, my curiosity wanted to start studying every single one of their minds, but my own intellectual was not enough to. Everyone trapped in their own addictions, wich they knew were bitter, but burned their tongues good enough not to pay attention to that, even though, only one of them was ashamed by them. Justifying their selves with cheap excuses, but even a dime would be enough to make everything worth. I'm depressed. There's too much stress in my work. My life is just not working out. I grew up seeing my father doing it. Bullshit. All fucking bullshit. But, positively, drugs manage to open their selves, so everyone starts a recital of feelings, wich are pathetic, and I can't help but listen to them: as a show of their depths, but as the fatalities that surround them. Some very very shallow, others not that much. That's a bit of why they loved their own addictions so much, they could drown, they could let themselves, the being they hated most, go, at least just for a very small while.

So, some are just to weak to contain the pain hiding themselves inside inquires.

But some others, are just so empty that they feed of others emotions, because is better that having none. Isn't it?