edit

It's a rare pleasure to start cutting. 
Scraping away more and more words, to reveal the soul of a story. 

the throne

The everlasting cascade makes it hard to concentrate. I keep flipping the switch, hoping the dreaded water keeps away from me. How much time left for the cavalry? Luckily the comforting words of the horror king keep me at it. So much water... 

the rhythm

It has been a while since I journeyed to places known from long before. How strange it feels to return to a state of mind I have long ago deemed as outdated. The scent, the people, the rush, it’s still there and my instincts welcome it with the same routine. It is as if I have never left. And shadows be damned I still long for more. It doesn’t matter if the fabrics are that of a time yet unknown, or even one before I was created. We all long for the rhythm. We all want to be part of that exclusive experience, where no mere mortals will venture.   

the little black box

It is a troublesome experience, being sucked down into the maelstrom. When the world shows its finest, when real life characters showed up next to me, I was pulled to the black device, living the mind numbing rush. How easy it is to become a slave of the habit. And it’s even easier to venture not further then the safe point, even within one man’s own devices. It’s time to break free, first to crash out of this cell, then to tear down the walls of this prison I have graduately build around me.  Through the bars I can already see great unknown, it is beckoning me... 

Swin did it

When Cherub’s Day’s around the corner, people tend to draw hearts while chomping up as much chocolate as possible. For me, the day was all about the antics of two man eaters, and a card saying: sorry, but the monster has devoured it all. At dusk I was haunted by the lady in black and was rushed towards a chip chop. Still gulping in some good soul food we rushed into the visual centre were dead was about to be brought alive again. It started out looking in the demented head of a loner, followed by a meeting with two old friends. Needles to say the latter was less dark and more humorous. They even had a good point: why do people wage war about the moon, when progress can’t solve the worlds more urgent problems? After a brief intermezzo, we listened at the manic wailing of a ghost. When the lights faded to black, we all were idly waiting for Godot... too bad he didn’t show up. Why we were waiting for him? Absolutely no idea, better luck next time. 
Eventually, while still remembering ancient times, we were gently kicked out of the establishment. The drive home remained the same:  through dark leaved tunnels. And even if this sounds a bit gloomy, it truly was a bliss prolonging the contract.

15 minutes

It  is commonly known that every human being is entitled to 15 minutes of fame. You can imagine my surprise when that time has been snatched by a mutant mariachi. Then again it might also be a sign that chaos is yet to be unleashed in another form. Just like the demons, lazurs are on the loose again. It’ll require some scouting along the common paths, kicking in doors and putting more weight on the mailman’s back. But he’ll manage, everything’s allowed to commence a new legend. 

Beckett

I have attended a gathering. The people were talking about an immortal writer. They put a light on things I couldn’t perceive myself: the gloom, the humour and the resilient lack of a beginning middle and end. 

This is structure supposed to reflect life itself, more specific the day to day basis. Ironically, this part of life also reflected on the current approach by connoisseurs: people keep digging up the long gone writer’s statements, digging for clues and making their own perceptions from it. And when the day goes by the writer will still be dead and new opinions will resurface. Still, the experts might have a point. And the pastime of some is not necessarily better than others. Then again... sometimes, shorter really is better.  I do wonder why some pastimes are considered more rewarding than others. In the end, all that matters is our legacy to the others, but would we mind? In the end it's all about how to stop breeding (or is it breathing?) before the carrions arrive. Ah well, sometimes a good laugh will suffice too.