i’ll tell you something. everything is going to be better and worse. nothing is ever perfect. happiness is not the ideal anymore; neither is surviving. the focus is accepting the mood, posing the questions into the void, and realizing there will be no answers at all. nobody called for this statistical impossibility of existence: and if we perish tomorrow, we will. until then, i am surrounded by pain and pop-music, and that’s definitely better than fighting. and if i’m lucky someone profits from my ignorant privilege. and if i’m really lucky, i’ll die young and without regrets and if possible, without any more tattoos.