What is going on?
The sky is dark, the clouds, black as coal… Rain… Thunder… Chaos…
Brilliant. Just what I needed to make this splendid day just a tad more memorable. Must be a Monday, another little entry in this bundled series of unfortunate events. This kind of weather is perfect environment for a heart torn lover, or a poet. They prefer this sort of thing. For some reason I felt as though they always expected it. I, on the other hand, am neither. I haven’t been in love for a long time, I’m a terrible poet, and this weather is shit.
I sleep for two hours, I wake up on the third. It’s almost as if sleep has decided to hold a grudge against me. Oh well, as I always say, it is a hell lot better than getting a visit from sleep’s elder brother: Death.
“Add French quote” Hallo my friend.
Oh hell. Mister wit has returned to make my day more splendid. I should really see a doctor. I’m getting tired of this bastard’s sarcasm and marvelous wit and wisdom. As if my own didn’t suffice, as if my own train of thought did less to fuck with my head.
I was sitting by the window in my room. I was tired, restless, and frankly, a little annoyed with myself. As history dictates, most people have wisdom within them, collected over time, acquired through diversity and adversity, eclectic, pure, innocent. It takes its place in their head, occasionally, and usually, as the voice in their heads that stops them from doing things that would almost always get them killed.
Mine belonged to an extremely annoying moron, who cracked extremely bad jokes, spoke in French, and did a shit job of it. The intonation was off, the accent was wrong, and the phrasing molested the grammar like a grudging moneylender. I would argue, but I don’t speak french. Strangely, I got used to him. But that doesn’t mean that I approved of him. In all honesty, he was borderline maniacal at times, but he did help me get out of a fix every now and then.
Think of long velvety curtains, smooth as silk, caressing your gliding fingers at every touch, beautiful, filled with pride as they welcome your touch. They are hung facing the side of your biggest room, sharing Space with your fireplace. There is no window behind them. Only cold, hard stone. You did not know why. You fight to reason how. But you get no answers. No clues. No hint. you dare not remove them. And you are left with a consistent thought, a persistent question, ever curious, ever wondering..
I’m sure I saw them move. The curtains…
A strange voice in my head, a terrible storm outside the window, and the mystery of the moving curtains.
This is the story of a travelling circus of wise fools…
The sky is dark, the clouds, black as coal… Rain… Thunder… Chaos…
Brilliant. Just what I needed to make this splendid day just a tad more memorable. Must be a Monday, another little entry in this bundled series of unfortunate events. This kind of weather is perfect environment for a heart torn lover, or a poet. They prefer this sort of thing. For some reason I felt as though they always expected it. I, on the other hand, am neither. I haven’t been in love for a long time, I’m a terrible poet, and this weather is shit.
I sleep for two hours, I wake up on the third. It’s almost as if sleep has decided to hold a grudge against me. Oh well, as I always say, it is a hell lot better than getting a visit from sleep’s elder brother: Death.
“Add French quote” Hallo my friend.
Oh hell. Mister wit has returned to make my day more splendid. I should really see a doctor. I’m getting tired of this bastard’s sarcasm and marvelous wit and wisdom. As if my own didn’t suffice, as if my own train of thought did less to fuck with my head.
I was sitting by the window in my room. I was tired, restless, and frankly, a little annoyed with myself. As history dictates, most people have wisdom within them, collected over time, acquired through diversity and adversity, eclectic, pure, innocent. It takes its place in their head, occasionally, and usually, as the voice in their heads that stops them from doing things that would almost always get them killed.
Mine belonged to an extremely annoying moron, who cracked extremely bad jokes, spoke in French, and did a shit job of it. The intonation was off, the accent was wrong, and the phrasing molested the grammar like a grudging moneylender. I would argue, but I don’t speak french. Strangely, I got used to him. But that doesn’t mean that I approved of him. In all honesty, he was borderline maniacal at times, but he did help me get out of a fix every now and then.
Think of long velvety curtains, smooth as silk, caressing your gliding fingers at every touch, beautiful, filled with pride as they welcome your touch. They are hung facing the side of your biggest room, sharing Space with your fireplace. There is no window behind them. Only cold, hard stone. You did not know why. You fight to reason how. But you get no answers. No clues. No hint. you dare not remove them. And you are left with a consistent thought, a persistent question, ever curious, ever wondering..
I’m sure I saw them move. The curtains…
A strange voice in my head, a terrible storm outside the window, and the mystery of the moving curtains.
This is the story of a travelling circus of wise fools…