Gorrelu

 Even after writing four books, with the fifth on its way and the sixth already here, after analyzing portraits and learning from my watercolor mistakes, painting outdoors as well — I sometimes feel suicidal, with zero satisfaction and an endless existential dread. I might die an absurd death, and I regret being mentally fucked up because of that bitch.

Still, I feel useless.


And I don’t understand how these rotten, chicken-shit brains can scroll miles through their phones and kill their lives all the way.

Chicken-shit assholes — gorre nayallu — how horrible their lives must be.

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