immonde

Sometimes, hate is justified.

Like when you see an old man, his hands in his pockets, you see his hand moving

and you pass him. Your blood boiling into your veins, looking, not trusting. Then you see a goblin-like man, sweaty, disgusting, on his bike, you walk, you walk, your blood still boils with each step, you arrive home. you write this.

sometimes, hate is justified.