my thoughts are scattered yet I manage to cohere them all the time.
I’m a rebel, you know. I’ll never have a reality of entire-working-days, family, children, and that’s alright for me. I accept my destiny. it would be utterly stupid to fight against it.
I foresee a really, really bad fortune for myself. and guess what? I accept it too. there are and there’ll always be the out-of-order fellows; you just get along with it, ‘cause you won’t prevent it anyhow.
here it was, my dream, me, and my Eve.
we were the first people in the world, although we encountered others while walking up the hill. we were entirely naked, only a pair of hills there was on her beautiful feet yet she took them off eventually.
we fucked in unidentified backyard, just next to the muddy river. I 69’ed her, although some jerk was molesting us.
incidentally, she was a brunette..and so it happened to make what the prophet said come true:
come on, brothers, let’s go down, down to the river and pray
I had a really terrifying dream the other night. Not that I payed much attention to it [fucking liar, I actually did], but I woke up trembling all over.
..somehow I obtained a heavy gun [like carbine or rather automatic rifle] and went on a shooting spree. I don’t remember the place or any other specific details, yet I distinctly recall the end of it.
there are two men in front of me, still and stunned. I don’t have to shoot them. however, they’re not reacting anyhow, so I stumble for a moment and eventually shoot one of them, point-blank in the chest. the other man drop dead as well.
then I realize that one of them is [or was, for he’s dead already] a famous musician and I’m going to be punished for it ‘cause everyone knows him. life imprisonment is the most probable for me, I know that for sure. and then..I’m walking through the backyard with my father, he tries to calm me down, hugging and saying that ‘we’ll take you out of it, don’t worry’, and I hug him too, feeling that special smell - the scent of my father’s shirt. my mind grasps it simultaneously with understanding that this is the last time I hug him, the last time I smell him and probably the last time I see him at all.
why is that so terrible for me? hold your horses, this is another story and I’ll tell it shortly.
Those of us who survive to be short-timers will fly the Freedom Bird back to hometown America. But home won’t be there anymore and we won’t be there either. Upon each of our brains the war has lodged itself, a black crab feeding.
every time feels like the first one when you walk up so early.
headache is like splitting your head in two, stomach hurts for no obvious reason, and the whole body of yours has ostensibly undergone severe tortures ever since you’ve gone to sleep.
I was undoubtedly wondering in some fairy forests, for my mind is full of magic fog that makes it almost impossible to concentrate on anything profounder than social networking.
so maybe I traveled to Dumbland. actually, I feel like as if I were there very often.
Ay, in the very temple of delight
Veil’d Melancholy has her sovran shrine.
Robert Anning Bell, from Poems by John Keats, London, New York, 1897.