The death of the sun

What would I do tomorrow? I will grow old, I will be disfigured? I'll jerk off surely? What do I want already? I do not know, nothing of this life interests me. The passing of time, myself drowning in illness, my brain in constant decay: and this anxiety that pulls me. I see and I suffer. The more I see myself the less I know myself. Have I already really loved? I cried for girls and I hate them again. I already liked, if I remember correctly, girls. Large, small, thin, big, boring or fun, banal or so not trivial. But I always found in them by venturing more the same emptiness inside, the same terrifying and cold nothingness. They terrified me. They told me they had no souls or the feeling of having one. Even my friends left me. Absolute paranoia is only total consciousness. There is nothing left to do when one is totally disillusioned. Who will i be on the morrow then and why? Will my corpse break down leaving neither meaning nor percussion? I have no fight, no one to avenge, no one to love. Only nightmares in nightmares. An abyss of bad dreams. They say to pursue our dreams, but in my dreams I can only see myself dying. Therefore in reality I am more afraid of aging than dying, in the end everyone dies. I want to be beautiful and unique, I want to blaze in all the arts but I am only a parasite and even giving the best of me I bring nothing. I was not destined to succeed and when I succeed in whatever it is, this does not bring me back anything, not my lost youth, nor my lost illusions, my lost life. I have no fight. I'm just a pulsar of aberrations fluttering here and there leaving behind a trail of filthy blood. I can not die because I have never lived, I would like to disappear without leaving anything, without never having existed, I would like to see the death of the sun. I want the death of everything, the death of all. I want a tumultuous blizzard plunging this microcosm into a night so cold that the pain would be the same for everyone.