Good.

Magical.

My thoughts plague me like demons in a cage.
Whenever I'm alone for too long, the darkness spreads out from the corners of my mind, pervading my being. It's like that song 'Paint it Black' by the Rolling Stones, you know?
We get into these moods where we realize that half of the goals we set for ourselves haven't been met, and that things just aren't going the way we want them to.
And we're getting older.

So we try to live our lives, watch our tv, surf our internet, without looking too deeply.
Because when you look into the abyss, the abyss stares back. And it's eyes are the scariest fucking thing you've ever seen.

It seems like by the time you realize what it was you wanted to do, or should've done, the time is passed, and all you can do is regret not jumping on it. Because opportunity only knocks once, and it rarely knocks hard. Opportunity knocks like someone not sure if they've got the right house, and they don't really want you to answer the door in case they're wrong. And it passes us by.

But wait, you say. I've done things, I've achieved so many goals, and I've lived so many dreams. But it's the things we haven't done that kill us. We tell the stories of our victories, but rarely our failures. We save that for ourselves, for the dark nights when you can't sleep and feel alone. When you remember what you should've, could've done. Because in the end, 'what if' are the two most terrible words we know, and we know them all too well. And it hurts. And we age. And more things pass us by, while we wallow in the past.

So I ignore my demons, tell them to fuck off, and try to keep living as best as I know how. Maybe one day my demons will magically turn into wonderful memories, or maybe not.
Either way, I will fight them, fight for myself, and fight for what I want in life. Because if it's not worth fighting for, it's not worth having. And the fight goes on.

oh. i ache. how i ache. envy, green tinged and shark like, a flick of a tail and it has gone. but desire. desire remains in the ripples of its wake. and deep. deep. down inside. i ache. i ache with wishes. with the wishes that i had written clean floor. with the wish that i had lived that moment, in just that way.

Dog howl because of fire engines. Perhaps sometimes they have beeter reason to howl. The instinct we tryt o understand. But we are always very far off. Which why we hire others the train our little beasts.
But right now, this untamed beast next dorr is barking at the sirens.And I wonder what he really thinks it is.
Then as I begin to drift off the most absurd thought floats in.
"Won't it be nice to die warm in a fire?"

" I was rather surprized to see a door in sucha place"

"A bedroom?" She asked giving me a ridiculous look.
"Oh, shit i was talking out loud agian."
He was more than a little disappointed in himself for having this fault. He could never really keep his mouth shut whatever he thought basically came tumbleing out. Usually embarrassing the hell out of him.
His thoight pattern changed once she walk ahead of him towards the bed.
"Why here?" He asked examining her as he climbed upon to the blue covered bed.
"Well, it's might more comfrontable than jagged rocks,broken glass or marbles floors covered in worms."
She said balanceing easily.
His pursuit onto the bed was stopped short.
' Worms? who covers a floor with worms?'
He thought carfully keeping his lips firmly together.
He stood examining the open doorway.
"Who put it here?"
"Noone" She said tilting her head in a fashion that inditcated he should go thru.
He frowned at the doorway.
"Noone....then what's it doing here?"
"Nothing, it doesn't really exsist." she said.

He looked at her almost expecting to be pushed thru. Some thing in her eyes said if he refused to go. She would find a more aggressive way to get him to point B.


I was thinking about the shortest way to get from point A to point B at work-

She pulled on her earlobe and it moved, turning with a barely audible slithering sound until it came off cleanly in her hand. She transferred the ear to her other hand, and probed deeply with her left index finger into the glistening hole exposed. Jack felt queasy as the finger disappeared up to the final knuckle.

Finally, she slowly withdrew her finger, wet, but not with blood, extracting a small blob, a little bigger than the tip of her finger, carefully pinching it between her thumb and forefinger so she could tug it out. There was some resistance, and it came out with a pop. Jack felt breakfast shifting again uncomfortably in his belly.

It was a tiny sack of transparent plastic, filled with something white, the color of animal fat. She held it out to him in her palm, her other hand still holding her detached ear. Jack noticed there was a reddish plug on the inside of the ear, where it had come away from her head. Maybe flesh, or bone. He couldn't tell.

"Go on," she said, "take it."

...and it came out with a pop.


Ahhhhhh mmh. *shudder*

He set a white paper box on the counter, pushed it toward Mackenzie, who had moved directly across from him in anticipation. William lifted the lid and set it aside, revealing a folded sheet of paper and a small carnelian and gold snuff box. Mackenzie smiled, reached into his jacket, sifting through a pocket's contents.

The antique dealer withdrew the paper and unfolded it, showing the item's claimed provenance.

"I am afraid there is very little original documentation to show," he said. "But the item is just as you described it, and the story passed down by the family is credible. The construction is almost certainly German. The Russian double eagle was obviously added later. The gold is beautiful, but it shows a different hand from that which produced the cagework..."

Mackenzie ignored him, fixated as he was on the smooth red stone of the snuff box. He found what he was looking for in his pocket. A brass capsule of witch dust, an especially potent variety composed of ingredients eschewed by most modern practitioners.

He twisted it open just a crack in a practiced, one-handed motion. He held his own breath and gestured William away with his free hand. A light shower of white dust fell from the capsule, drifting over the delicate little box.

The pain from the rough grass made his bare legs move on faster, to reach the little hill pupping out of the beachmeadow behind the dunes. Only as he was just in front of it, he could see the entrance covered with small bushes growing sideways to follow the hard west wind. He pushed the branches away to enter the hole still kept open by the old beams creating a door frame in the hill. The darkness wasn´t complete, due to a narrow rectangular window facing the ocean. He stepped down to the concrete floor and immediately discovered the black swastika inscription on the wall, dated 61 years ago, just two days before the official end of the war.

Some days you wake to sunshine, some others to clouds and rain. I can remember a brightly innocent voice asking me:

"So, are you a morning person?" smiles.

No, I am not. But I will be.
The problem with mornings is being removed from your dreams. The lies we tell ourselves at night can hold no bond on the blank slates of our morning minds. I take to my bed at night telling myself that depression is temporary, a cycle of dream and nightmare to temper the mind and lend richness to one's past. When I wake, however, I return from the strange lands of my dreams and can only see what's before me.
What I see now is a rusty iron nightstand dripping with spilled liquor. Fragments of a bottle not close enough to the trash, remains of an alarm clock functional enough to tell me that I've missed my interview.
There's nothing permanent here. No item to tell me I've accomplished or have the ability to conquer anything without or within. No lies and nothing hopeful. I notice this only for a few moments before the patter of rain on the steel roof draws my mind away.
No, i'm not a morning person. But I will be.

"Strange that I stopped ?"


There was strange energy in the streets today. We could see the thunderstorm coming in the moody sky and the wind rushing the trees. Traffic. narrow street that I was about to cross. A motorbike approaching and then behind it a car about to make a turn on the street.

I walk at a fast pace; see the motorbike and slow down so that to cross right in the gap between it and the car. He's moving at slow speed, I stop mid-step and then all of a sudden he just stops and says "You first". The sequence of action played out in my mind is altered. I look at him puzzled. then proceed with crossing the street. "Strange that I stopped ?" he said behind me but I didn't turn around nor slow down.

I was wearing low-rise jeans, half size too big and so a bit baggy held in place by a black wide leather belt, plus a fitted light blue top that left most of my waist exposed...

So in other words, not so strange that he stopped after all.

You know Trogdor's going to ask for pictures. Get the pepper spray ready.

A hundred thousand hours... a little over eleven years. More than four thousand days. It's how long she's been gone: not that I'm counting, you understand.

I don't know why, or where... or whether it was even her choice. One rainy morning, she left - a routine morning smile and a wave with the umbrella she'd never use unless it was torrential.

Called all the hospitals (until they got impatient with me) and filed reports and talked to the cops, of course. Some of them looked at me like she might be buried in the basement. Not all of them.

Strong, strange modulations. I let the computers decipher the protocol, and a voice emerged out of the ether, a faint whisper. It said several words in a language I do not know. I didn't bother letting the computers try to figure out that protocol. The sounds were much more interesting than whatever she was trying to say. The ringing of her vocal chords and the constrictions of her mouth. She was straining, pushing out the words. I could hear the stale air, heavy with carbon dioxide, whistling past her teeth, over her lips. It was a terrible, intimate noise.

Nice!

She's pretty, and that's a shame.

He knows he's not imagining that several people have stared. Furtively, just for a second; all good Christians here, and he definitely falls into the "do unto others" category. It doesn't matter now - the number's programed. He touches the backpack under the table with the tip of his foot, maybe to be sure it's still there, maybe hoping somehow it isn't.

She brings his check, and as he hands her what he owes and a large tip he tells her, you really should take a break soon - you look tired.

As he walks out the front he imagines she's walking out the back, maybe just for a smoke and maybe that's far enough.

He presses redial and drops the phone in the garbage.

In the beginning I thought everyone was just speaking in a low volume and I found myself asking to repeat all the time. Nobody seemed to care, but after a couple of days I started to prepare myself for the upwaking of getting older and loosing hearing. I realy starred at peoples faces while speaking, to get some information out of the expressions and mouthmovements, but it didn´t help at all. I noticed that most people raised their voices after the second repetition without succes, but it didn´t make it more understandable for me, when the sentence was shouted directly to my face. Two weeks passed in that mumbling not comunicating way, till I finally understood, it was a different language. No hearing aid could ever help me translating that.