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Why keep writing this crap?

Probably, there are also those who ask, "Do continue writing such a thing and is it beneficial to what?" Inside me. But it should already be denied in the premise. Nevertheless, this question is repeated. Just like me who live. I am the impatient boy who draws a bowstring and goes back and forth between a nest and feeding areas. An eye is intently elaborated on the ground and its pace is lightheartedly quickened for the back with slight roundness. A heartless and simple sky spreads back then. It will be inhaled unawares, becoming a decisive wall and carrying out a form like a phon into my ear. The inside of my ear disappears suddenly with an infinite spread. The skirt of the night dress made in the race walks along stroking the hair of a warm carpet. It is the group of earnest storks. In the stomach, a stork has melted countless children, flying. Before the digestion finished, threw the rope to their head, tore apart the belly with the obviously thick knife, and we came out. We are smeared with blood. Because of this, we sinful with birth cannot completely understand a thing called a crime. For example, the cross with which Jesus Christ was made attachment is copied now, and has appeared on the market all over the world. For example, the old men of a white mustache who wrapped the body in the black suit of Judea make Wailing Wall a holy place. Sorrow -- it are sacred. Heidegger explained that it was the illness in which just despair dies and results. But the illness in which just despair dies and results has settled by carrying out, being born into us.
It is not visible to the basis of the burned lamp that the insect of darkness has ached. The ankle of the woman of an overwhelming majority walks around my face. The number of ankles is unusual. I will wrap it in the leaf of a big lotus one by one, and make it roast, and sell at the market of the open space of the roof of a tattered cloth. The neck on which the man who goes back and forth grew fat is perspiring. The figure of sweat which dips the color of a dead tired shirt, removes the yellowed hat, and wipes sweat is very desirable. That trees are noisy in midnight darkness is teaching that the red dress is buried with the root of the tree in fact. I dig it up. If my cheek is pressed against the cheek of the full of the grounds cloth piece tatter, joy of an endless feel will spread in me. If there is also no reliance and the one body which probably had this dress on once is visualized, ambiguity will wear a divine light with ambiguity. Those who can find all out there are restricted. I who am one person of the inside of the limited man am going to do so, forgetting the time, among 20 years or more. While inserting a clothespin there.
Now, finally all were approaching. Because the night which had covered all stops already bearing and going out, and has been notice whiter. The confession will fall on on on all the heads that are on the ground. The sharp thunderbolt of one falls during the youth who walks calmly and goes down one distorted orange which falls and falls a way without a way, and the way of a stone pavement. What did he really look at? The bucket in a roadside is surging the ripple forever. It is an infinite true circle. The moon becomes thin obviously, becomes thin and is still getting tired of waiting for the sun. But heartlessly, the sun has not hung such a thing on mind at all. He is the lump of indifference, burns it and is alive. The pillar of big agate stone is falling at any moment. While shining glitteringly. The dream of Leonardo Da Vinci is finished with a dream. Moreover, that prize that is the pronoun of the world contribution which Nobel made burns the empty in Vietnam, and shaves off the coal mine in Russia. The huge artificial crater was made so stale that existence of a caldera is taken. The rat of an animal experiment is waiting for food, twitching a nose in a cage. I will never read "Jekyll and Hyde" even if I wish to read it suddenly, although I cannot think now that Eros may not exist. 100 brassieres dried in eaves shake to a wind. If I look, brassieres are dried in from a window to a window of this town. I who live in such an unusual town will be the pearl oyster of boring! Wearing the trousers which have the burn of tobacco in a thigh, hardening hair with pomade, now the place which I go is the hole of a town. It is dark, is deep and is narrow.... That acorn has fallen such the sweet world and into it that the lukewarm breath which became wet and yet is got blocked.