I shouldn’t have opened that door.
Those weren’t ever my subconscious fears.

I thought I could adapt to anything new,
that my strenght was to be able to endure any possible change.
But in the end nobody is a real hero.

That doesn’t mean that I didn’t know my fears…
I just don’t want to have new fears,
events and shapes that I never thought I could fear.

I hate fearing what it is on the other side.
I hate what it is on the other side.
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Heading towards a meeting, the 101 is a nightmare again.
I hate the freaking traffic. But this case is really, really bad.

Why?
Oh, this time wasn’t a pointless reason nor an accident.
It was the hundredth anniversary of the Armenian holocaust.
Anniversary sounds weird for such a massacre.

I hate that I couldn’t go past the Armenian genocide (parade).
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I know god gave you a jetpack,
but there’s no reason to do that over me.

We call it number two- but birds have just one.

I am glad that you ended up being turned into stone,
but are those peebles getting out of your butt now?

I hate gliding angels.
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It’s the distance that I can’t take.
So many memories -so tasty and graceful…
I am so fond of our times together…

I adored that squeaky laughter when I bit you.
When we danced to the groove of gravy.
And made tuberous love as a means of asexual reproduction.

I miss you, poutine.
But don’t be afraid.
We’ll always have Québec.

And my hate of being away from you, poutine.
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A phantom from the past- a twin booth appeared.
She kept doing what she died doing: calling.
And nobody answered- it was already too late.
Too late to open her soul -because they also were gone.

And to think that she detested their calls…
that she was the one not picking up.
And now she faces an eternity of unanswered calls.
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Here, take your drug.
But don’t go yet! Pose for me.

Oh yeah, that’s the fur I like…
Oh yeat, keep nibbling babe.

And then I realise where I am…
and I wonder why am I doing this-
as I don’t like squirrels gone bananas.
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When everything has been said and done
and to hope is just impractical.
When there’s no way to keep going
and we can only look back.

Rust can’t be enjoyed when it’s the only thing left.
No more depressive songs will do.
It’s the end of the rail line.
And it’s safe to hate when it’s over.

All the paths you could have taken,
all the stations that weren’t visited
and all the trains you’ve mistaken-
At least the fight is over.

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Why are we here?
in the lands of snow and ice…
none of us wanted the coldness but
together we sought refugee from the clot,
erasing all those bad memories that stalked us-
running away from the monthly blood that long ago claimed winter.
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