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    Яαgιи Яαvєи
    Cairo, Egypt
    Wanting people to listen, you can't just tap them on the shoulder anymore. You have to hit them with a sledgehammer, and then you'll notice you've got their strict attention.
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Tapping at my chamber door




« Home | Is that enough? » | How much for the nuclear head? » | Pride! with an exclamation point » | Why Erhaby? » | The blue state; and the countdown begins » | Ladies and gentlemen, I give you George Galloway » | A desert road from Vegas to nowhere » | My stained, chalk-outlined home » | Worthless to remember » | اعتراض من الجانب الآخر »

And so he writes...

A little marinara sauce won't make it taste better; a twist of lemon won't flourish it either. That refreshing mint rush he's always fancied absorbed in by his lungs, burning up his nostrils, shortening his breath, cutting out air. Mint justice. It all goes down to this. He flips a coin and waits for his fate to decide. The earl grey, the marinara sauce, the lemon twist and the mint... they won't make it any better. They all have the bitter after-taste. He rips out his tongue, thinking that life can be a little bearable then, and he stuffs it into a dossier along with his bad necks and hard disk failures and heartbreaks and heart strokes and shaky hands and sleepless nights and stashes it all under his bed, hoping that making them visually inaccessible will make things alright after all. Then he pulls out another folder where he keeps his souvenirs of the loved and lost and places it carefully under his pillow make-believing that once his eyes are shut his dreams would come true, even for a one night stand, but they never do. He breaks into a classical moment of truth. Another cliché to throw in to the wind, the wind that hates him, that carries those restless clichés and throws them into his eyes and through his mind along with the rest of his remains of a breathing being. A mobster with a cigar being put out in his chest. A princess walking out his door, saying that she loves him, lying flinchless. A turtle carrying him towards his destiny and a god sending him signs to exit, and every time he follows the signs he finds the door locked. Drink up, pretty boy. Temptations and seductions are the elements of life appreciation without which we'd have been ungrateful to the al mighty... it's what separates us from the rest of the beasts, what gives us the will not to howl at the moon. He's ready for bed now, places the silver pennies on his eyes before they shut just in case he never wakes up again, at least then he'd have paid off his dues... however, he wakes up and his dues still stand tall, and so he begs for more. He can absorb his morning caffeine like shattered glass engraved in his skull, asking him to grieve the death of common sense. He carves it in like morning paper arbitraries, saying the best in him for strangers to mourn him and miss him. He hopes he's made them proud.

And that's all he fucking wrote...

ok first of all before i read this post again i try to concentrate i must tell you that i'll kill the damn bunny, i was searhing for the thing to at least shut him down so i can read for a second and you moved it. i guess the bunny will be waiting for me always when i come here.
how i wish sometimes you would have given me your appartment keys. now i'll just silence the bunny and read in piece quiet

i think we all have lived this guys life at some point, what could be a comfort for us is that at least we had our caffeine to absorb may it taste however it will. would it even have a taste? after all our tongue is ripped out.

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