I should have died many times, but I only died as an old man. I no longer drank the cheapest wine in the cheapest tavern. I lived comfortably, surrounded by cats and young women who admired me. I had to live to be the king of the lazy, a group that no one wants, with outcasts and madmen knocking at my door. But someone had to do it, someone had to bring hope to those who no longer have that joy. I had the biggest balls in Los Angeles. Poet´s note. Author Charles Bukowski is still hero for outcasts.
I was real. So many have pretended to be me. The lost daughter of the Tsar, even though I was supposed to be born a son, an heir. But I died, like all the rest of us. Before I had to die, I blossomed for a short time. I still remember the shots, the death cries of my sisters, the end of the dynasty. I was not a foolish girl, I was a victim of my time, Grand Duchess Anastasia. A poet's note. There are many stories about Anastasia Romanova, but she was murdered in 1918 along with the rest of the Tsar's family.
Until the last time I tried to call, until no one answered. I left behind a mystery, Marilyn Monroe, but really I was Norma Jean, forever loveless. When they found me, I lay naked in my bed, the way they wanted to see me. But Norma Jean, she didn't answer. Then I just slept, I left Marilyn to them.
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