google translated, not supposed to make sense

The toll booth, the hometown that has never been masked, the person who refuses to save my life. Illusion, huge, bulging self-esteem, submerged inferiority complex. I thought I could finally draw all the hearts, but my fingers led me nowhere. You’re lying on a knitted car seat cover at the end of June, beige thread rubbing against your tender thighs, isolated from sex since childhood, and raped you all over again. How clean is the hymen? The hazy eyes of a nineteenth-century girl when she was about to marry, just want to tear the paper, drown, drown you, burn you, why did you only want to destroy yourself since childhood. Too much hope for the right hand. So the left hand will be more comfortable. You refused to go in, so at the end of the last charcoal also locked himself in the house. The car passes the toll booth, you eat the driver’s chewing gum, and travel happily. Everything is in your mind, and the dirty, dirty, stinky, and stinky things have everything. So writing and painting will not help you, a woman with wormholes in her womb that will devour all the life around her, a woman who doesn’t know what she looks like and doesn’t know where she is. Couldn’t draw myself from the start. Deprived of specificity, clothes are still worn, what about your performance, the skin you still think is clean, and the cloudy eyes? The invisible and invisible jelly in your brain is what you always like to say that they devour you, and when you don’t have it, you will be hungry and unbearable. In this world with borders, haven’t you been waiting for the moment when something abnormal and wrong begins? Who else can you send these to? The hymen full of holes, the bloody nostrils, all turned into small snakes that got into the crevices of the body and lifted the whole spirit into hell. The soul that shelters nightmares, the eyes of a 17-year-old girl, how well-behaved you are, no one will lure you into hell by yourself. Memories are all blank, because it wasn’t trauma or childhood that turned you into a corpse, but your whole self. Your wishes, your hobbies and timidity, you can imagine the calf on the cliff when you sit on the sofa, singing is the throat of thousands of years rather than the present, the brain that has long been invisible. I can’t speak your mind. I can’t say what you want me to say because you are already dead. Maybe the suicide note could say something like “I’ve been someone who wasn’t me, but I didn’t know who I was, so I died.” There’s nothing to apologize for. Take off your clothes and you’re back, big trapezius, strawberry nose, not me anyway. Ask the doctor what is the disease, the thin and beautiful neck and Yi Mengling’s arm rest on the table, the pitiful eyes, ask the doctor, what is the disease? Maybe it’s just floating up again. Disintegration, depersonalization, really hate the word, like a beyblade. Don’t lose weight anymore, get hungry, you are never a woman, you, you, you. Everything in the confession is not you, it is not you who is speaking now, and the person who is describing is not you. Must die, no, must live forever, which audience are you writing a bitter love letter for? It’s me, thank you. Red watercolor paper. I don’t trust my own hands anymore, I can only be a life-saving straw, my life is hanging by a wire rope, and I can only live safely. There will no longer be a fair body to share with the world, a stomach full of feces, what are you talking about, it’s time to shut up, dreams are waiting for you, it’s time to go to sleep a few hours ago.

Toll station, hometown of the raw vegan, people who
won’t save my life. Delusional, grandeur, foolish self esteem, tearful self esteem. Thought I’d finally draw all the hearts, fingers lead me nowhere. You are lying on a knitted wheelchair seat at the end of June, and the beige thread touches your thick thighs, from childhood to adult and sex extinct, so everything is yours. How white is virgin lip again? When a girl in the eighteenth-century, you just want to wipe the tissues, wipe you, burn you, burn you. Why do you want to wipe yourself from a young age? Too much expectations for right hands. So the left hand will be more comfortable. You wouldn’t go inside, so the very last monkey locks himself in the house. Cars pass the toll station, you eat the driver’s gum, and its fun business trip. It’s all in your head, the evil doers have everything. So writing and painting won’t help you. A woman who has long teeth in her womb and wants to eat everything around her, doesn’t know what she looks like and doesn’t know where she is. Can’t draw myself from the start. Characteristics are worn by dirty clothes, your performance, you still think your skin is clean, blemishes in your eyes? The inconsistent and intangible troubles in the brain is that you always like to say that thev are eating you up, but when you don’t have them, it is painful to bear. In this world with boundaries, haven’t you been waiting for that moment when abnormalities and mistakes start? Who else can you send these to? Virgin moles covered in cloths, bloody moles, all that penetrate the body and cast the whole spiritual moles into hell. Wrapping the soul of nightmares, the eyes of a 17-year-old girl, how stupid are you, no one’s cheating you, go to hell yourself. Memories are blank, because it’s not trauma or childhood that makes you awake, it’s who you are. Your desire, your desire and sincerity, sitting on the sofa can imagine the town next door, singing is a thousand years instead of the present silence, the brain is already invisible. I can’t speak out your mind. I can’t say what you want me to say because you already dead. Maybe the book can say “I’ve been acting like someone I wasn’t, and I didn’t know who I was, so I’m dead. “There’s nothing to apologize for either. undress, you’re back again, big chest muscles, strawberries, not me anyway. Ask the doctor what is the disease, the beautiful lips and the dreamy hands on the counter, the poor eyes, ask the doctor, what is the disease? Might just pick it up again. Disintegrate, really hate this word, like garbage. Quit swallowing it and put it on your lips you never a woman you you you you Everything you confess is not you, you are not the one talking now, the one describing is not you. Desperate, no, must live forever, which audience are you writing a complaint letter for? That’s me, thank you. Red water colour paper. I don’t trust my own hands anymore, I can only be a lifesaver, life is a screwdriver, hold me safely, and I can only live. There will never be a white body to share with the world again. A lifetime of feces, impure, what are you talking about? It’s time to shut up. Dreams