Because of recent spikes of interest in wildlife and gunpowder, we will go hunting tomorrow. I'd love to go there by car during night, as long as
I'm sitting in the right back seat so I can watch the headlights go by on the other side of the road.
we drive for longer than an hour
and we have a leprechaun as personal escort.
Those are my only conditions or terms or demands.
(nibbly noise of the accountant taking notes on a piece of scrap paper)
We will arrive at a forest scene, with dark green and piercing scents of pine trees. After a brief briefing we should part ways and find our own destiny, fighting through the thick and spiky bushes. I myself am going to find a decently sized deer. As I will creep on him I will try my best not to let it hear or smell me, but suddenly the deer will turn around and tell me that I don't like hunting. All the forest friends will burst out in a symphonic cacophony of animalistic sounds, and there will be plenty of joyous singing and laughter; the deer might even use the most beloved puppy-eyes ever on me.
Current mood: piss off my mood is vastly irrelevant
don't get your hopes up high
the smiles will break your spine
as you flapper around the sun
your wings alight
in agonizing beauty
sugar white demise
coffins closing tightly
keep your hands inside
so don't get your hopes up high
the eyes will drown your mind
leave a message behind
leave a message behind
wat etc...my head hurts and the slender slit between the curtains reveals too much of the outside world. The tiny beam of light shining through is intricate though; I cannot refrain from observing how it dances across the ceiling.
Current mood: invisible would be a bit of a banality
Yesterday I was on a typical tedious trip with the train; fifteen absolute INDIVIDUALS sitting in one compartment, all staring at blurry objects through the window. The scattered vacant seats reminded me of the space between film-goers: always one seat in-between. I noticed how determined people are to avoid each other's gaze as everyone seemed to be trying their hardest not to look in anyone's eyes in the window reflections.
That said, I very much enjoyed doing the exact opposite.
Upon exiting the train I thought how silly JFK's "Ich bin ein Berliner" would have been in Hamburg.
Walking through the city streets made me very annoyed with an abnormal amount of people bumping into me. Even worse was that none of the insolent bastards offered an apology. While another impertinent moron bashed me I made the spontaneous decision to honour the local warehouse with my presence and seek refuge from the pounding mass at the same time.
As I entered the store's premises through the gliding doors, the security guard eyed me with an odd expression on his visage.
Last night at the warehouse I discovered that I had become invisible.
This chap who usually spread the word of blood war sex violence and the occasional rescued whales had seemingly quit his job, because an earnest looking man with a black umbrella and a newspaper under his arm told us.
I had always imagined that I'd spend my last precious moments in a most ludicrous way: turning dreams into reality, jumping from tall skyscrapers onto a heap of monstrous cushions, or at the very least fucking random females in the middle of a random street. Instead, I was lured to the supermarket. They have this kind of billboard which shows you the latest Christmas sales in flashy fashionable colours, and naturally I couldn't resist the multinational capitalistic magnet.
I went there by car, quite illegally seeing my age, but a slip of the mind is no rarity in the event of dying worlds. When I crossed the white snowy parking lot I noticed a girl behind a shopping cart walking towards me in a slippery manner. She was obviously mentally handicapped, so for some reason I decided to put on a smile usually directed at small inferior kids. I asked her what she was planning on doing next, the world was on the verge of collapsing after all. "Look mister, my trolley glides on the ice," she said. I looked at her in slight and concealed bewilderment, but then I realized some are blessed with ignorance, and made a mental note to appreciate gliding trolleys in the future.
note: English is not my first language so forgive me for any mistakes I've made; feel free to correct them)
the epitome of being a juvenile revolves around one single aspect of life:
alcohol, and to be more precise, the consuming of it. Before me on the bar, I
detect the presence of a half-emptied glassesque object, indicating I too am
partaking in this intoxicating activity. With heavy eyelids and a slowed
heartbeat, I make a feeble attempt to focus my eyesight on the content of the
glass, and despite my evident tipsiness, finally come to the conclusion that
the surging liquid must be…whisky.
because I have no recollection whatsoever of ordering such a beverage.
Nevertheless, I shrug it off and inhale the aroma that it spreads in my nearby
area. The scent implies that it is from Scottish origin, and I smilingly enjoy
another sip. As the quality fluid accidentaly enters my windpipe, my lungs
force out a violent and ripping cough, sending part of the swig back into my
mouth. I hastily place the tumbler back on the bar, hoping no other patron
witnessed my slightly embaressing drinking failure. Now that the glass stands
at an alterend position, I cannot help but notice how it reflects the light
emitted by the cheap bulbs above the obese bartender in a most intricate way.
In its tiniest detail I manage to recognize a cherry lipstick print left behind
by the previous (female?) drinker, and in silent astonishment I appreciate this
small gesture by fate, but also question the working condition of the pub’s
dishwasher. Should I warn the owner for the gloomy adversity hovering over the
future of his tavern, by the mere sight of a glassy kiss? Better not, I decide.
It would make me a grumpy, unsatisfied boozer, and I am neither ill-tempered
nor discontented (though the description of a soak would fit me well, taking
the near-empty glass into account).
near-empty glasses, my inebriated brains make an unstable mental note to order
another shot of single malt, but at that exact moment an exuberant group of
barely legal teenagers behind me explode into drunken singing. I can vaguely
distinguish “Beer n’ titties, lalala”, before they somehow succeed in dragging
the entire crowd along in their hormonic yet barely harmonic chanting. Visibly
annoyed, the bartender fails to notice my extended index finger pleading for
more alcohol. I sigh, and return to observing my drinking glass. The lipstick still
remains, now tightly intertwined with gradually fading prints of my own set of
lips. Encouraged by a blasphemously loud reinterpretation of “Silent Night”
booming in the background (a new song introduced by the vocally challenged
group), I gulp the remnants of my drink down, wary of the dangers that such an
ambitious act bring, and I carefully swallow to avoid any earlier experienced
intake of more alcohol contaminates my already wobbly mental capacity even
further, making it impossible for me to distuinguish whose mug is mine. A great
variety of glasses now cloud my vision, all spiralling past my eyesight in a
kaleidoscopical fashion, until screams of blood and violence haul me back to a
lesser distorted reality. The rape of several Christian hymns by the drunken
younglings had seemingly not only aggravated my bartending friend and me, but
also a pastor who had been enjoying his ”Big Day Out (BDO)”. He was now
assaulting one of the rapists with nothing but a Gideon Bible, which he used to
ferociously destroy the skull of his newly-acquainted target. Suddenly and
quite forcefully, the entire scene evolves into one gigantic moshing pit, with
one particular bloke bashing my glass off the bar, sending it elegantly
spiralling to the floor where it erupts into millions of tiny particles. I
tearfully cry out at the loss of such an inspiring piece of art, though my sad
emotions quickly transgress the borders of madness, leaving me with no choice
but to attack him in a red raging haze.
authorities arrive onto the scene, they restrain several troublemakers in an
attempt to disperse the brawl. I too am handcuffed, and while I am beaten to
the ground with police batons, I scream and try to point out that the
instigator of my violence had ruined the instigator of all my contemplations
that night; a worthy cause to fight for. One policeman, a chubby chap with a
monobrow and flat nose, remarks that “thas
a whole lotta hate, tis mate”, though I misunderstand him by thinking he
claimed it was a Wholahay’s mate. However, my stupified self-consciousness does
not allow me to cheerfully conclude this notion in victory.
Whatever. As if they would or could appreciate the apparent beauty of a
drinking glass, is the last thought that strikes my mind as my head brutally
meets the police car door and my being blacks out in a saddening and eerie
(Yes, I know this is utter tosh but I feel like posting it anyway)