Thursday, January 19, 2012


shit, shit, shit...arrrr####******
need to come up with neatly typed five pages, full of sense, with footnotes, bibliography and other adornments.
The five pages will be a little passport, a pair of wings, a door to another life.
But, how much weight can you make words carry? They screech, yawn and tumble all over, spilling coffee over crazy mornings.
It doesn't work. The idea is half cooked, the words are all over. Why don't you lie back and be Rip Van Winkle for another year?

Sir, have you ever sat and watched the solemn funeral of years? They are capable of running in the same circles over and over again and die their customary death standing in the same freaking point where they began. So, you need to push them off mountains, drown them in rivers and sun them on islands-hoping that they will learn a thing or two. May be swimming, may be zen, may be new grammar, may be disenchantment, may be just anything.
There is never any spring which fills your inside with colours, never a rain which drenches your very being, never a touch to hold you here or there. The high of the long distance runner, the promise of a change of scene, another backdrop-hey words, can you behave for once, for the sake of new road signs?

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