I Like little old Boris, with his big nose, his chubby profile, the glasses and the little brown eyes.
I like him because he is simple and quiet, even if sometimes he is washed away from the storm he has inside.
I love his being a maniac, a freak, a dangerous individual.
I love the way he talks, his warm voice and his recurrent phrases.
I love him when he tries to be different from himself, when he is gloomy when he cannot stop talking about death or when he gets the burst of laughter (every time he has a good smoke for instance)
I love him when he is drunk and he becomes romantic or sad.
I love him when he feels like sex and he would fuck whatever passes by…I love him when he really thinks he has fallen in love.
Boris is my companion since more than 30 years, he sleeps with me, eats with me and he even jacks off with me.
Being Boris is not always easy, and the nights I spend at my computer trying to finish my book sometimes fall into shit, into porn or into alcohol…but that’s not such a deal. We survive.
Maybe I should begin being serious about things, but I feel that doing it I would feel the pressure of the world too hard on myself, I am not so strong after all. So I prefer to piss around.
Why do I write? Because I like it.
Why do I share? Because it feels like shouting my rage against the universe and it makes me a little bit happy.
I am warming up here, I am checking myself digging the grave hoping to get out the other side.
You are not obliged to read. But I am happy you are doing it.
You are allowed to judge, disagree, insult and criticize, I’d love to hear all of that, but you can stay in silence and I won’t claim.
I am going to give you a piece of my mind and really get out of the hole from now on…but what has been written remains (with the opportune modification…of course)
I am just a joker, closed in a room with no windows, suffocating in my own breath, hallucinated from my own visions. That’s where my dreams become my ideals, because clowns can have ideals too, and they are worthy like any others.
Well, I am done here. Thanks for listening
I like him because he is simple and quiet, even if sometimes he is washed away from the storm he has inside.
I love his being a maniac, a freak, a dangerous individual.
I love the way he talks, his warm voice and his recurrent phrases.
I love him when he tries to be different from himself, when he is gloomy when he cannot stop talking about death or when he gets the burst of laughter (every time he has a good smoke for instance)
I love him when he is drunk and he becomes romantic or sad.
I love him when he feels like sex and he would fuck whatever passes by…I love him when he really thinks he has fallen in love.
Boris is my companion since more than 30 years, he sleeps with me, eats with me and he even jacks off with me.
Being Boris is not always easy, and the nights I spend at my computer trying to finish my book sometimes fall into shit, into porn or into alcohol…but that’s not such a deal. We survive.
Maybe I should begin being serious about things, but I feel that doing it I would feel the pressure of the world too hard on myself, I am not so strong after all. So I prefer to piss around.
Why do I write? Because I like it.
Why do I share? Because it feels like shouting my rage against the universe and it makes me a little bit happy.
I am warming up here, I am checking myself digging the grave hoping to get out the other side.
You are not obliged to read. But I am happy you are doing it.
You are allowed to judge, disagree, insult and criticize, I’d love to hear all of that, but you can stay in silence and I won’t claim.
I am going to give you a piece of my mind and really get out of the hole from now on…but what has been written remains (with the opportune modification…of course)
I am just a joker, closed in a room with no windows, suffocating in my own breath, hallucinated from my own visions. That’s where my dreams become my ideals, because clowns can have ideals too, and they are worthy like any others.
Well, I am done here. Thanks for listening
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