Ask me, my dear, where does this nausea originate from.
Ask me, my dear, what existence is worth in this menial world.
You have got yourself a bunch of idiotes calling the shots.
You have got yourself a few poor diables that know nothing or aspire to know nothing. Le monde est une putaine de fable.
I wanted to tell you everything.
I wanted to have the strength to forgive it all, even when the bad comes mostly from myself.
Mais je ne suis qu’une masse de chair et d’os.
I feel like the world has chewed me up and spat my pieces all over this damned Earth. Can I gather them all in this lifetime?
Mon amour, je t’aime mais je suis faible.
I keep missing a reality that no longer acknowledges me.
And I keep allowing this outside toxicity to corrupt me.
I want to blow it all up.
The anger and the frustration grows like a cancer. Can we kill this maladie?
Or is it that this illness is the norm, these days? Are we all doomed to succumb to this new plague?
I feel nauseated. All I am is nausea.
How can I be expected to exist as a full human being?
Puis-je traiter cette nausée? Exister d’une manière saine?