Lumi isn’t, though.
My darning stands by me.
Such is the fate of the world these days.
I’m writing short stories. One involves waking up next to the Spirit of Justice. The other one I only have the beginning sentence ready. They’re very different stories. Don’t know how long those stories will be. Don’t know if I’ll post them here either. In any case, it’s good to be writing again, and not just for the sake of escape this time. Does feel good to say that.
I wouldn’t cry. I couldn’t cry. Still bothers me. Still, as Pinkie can spot one crying on the inside… I wonder what she’d say about me if it came to that.
Sometimes tears can be sad. Sometimes tears can be of joy.
Everybody wants somebody to love. Nobody wants to be alone. Sometimes living with ourselves can be hard. People on the edge of the night, living in small houses, dropping bombs as they pass you by. In a perfectly natural and non-threatening manner, of course.
The movie adaptation of the guitar solo carries on into the raincoat down the trodden street, blocks on both sides of it, tall buildings where nobody lives and where every drape is pulled shut, no lights in the windows, no candles or soups, the hat blows in the wind with an old newspaper only to be illuminated in the flash of thunder. Lyrics unheard, lyrics unsung, heroes, thieves, vagabonds and villains, all gathering in a grand gesture unknown to the participants and the guest of honor who regretfully could not sign in the obituary, remaining under cover, under fire, under drops of sweets and crumbled pieces of festive outfits, all raining from the sky underground and as the green light begins shivering in the corner of the spiders domain we all know that it was not the butler who murdered the person in question. We are at a loss for ways to express ourselves in distant languages that travels in groups of tourists down the beaches to sit on the waterfront, alone and in small communities, the hoarse rust in a shirtless voice that drives, drives, drives you, pulls you, pushes your car and your lawn and moves over just to tell you that your eviction have been postponed indefinitely in honor of the service your grandchild preformed in the past – last Tuesday, to be exact –without the aid of the maker of a time traveling space machine in the mists of an acapella brochure. Advertising without the permit to sprout religious sentiment brings fines and mackerels to the table next to yours, sitting down at it you’ll be invited over no more by the lady in the red dress where the gun is unreal and the tournament packs a blast just to get you, soaring, soaring into the night sky and the astronomers wet blanket filled with gems, gold and illicit treasure maps covered in a bra three sizes too big for you to even consider to put on display. Sense and sensibility hides amongst the true devotees of the moons side that does not begin to describe what the cat drank for dinner last night in the cupboard with the calm, feminine voice of reason, nor do I assume that Shakespeare and Ibsen would get along with James Joyce in a white motor engine powered by hooded dogs on wheels of steel down the roads to Oxford and the diary makes out with the dictionary in an scrutinized effort to appear more intellectual and intelligent than your average tea pot filled with bisects and sugar canes – the cinnamon is on the side dish, thank you very much. The stream of consciousness isn’t new to us as a concept or idea, but to take that and run with it, run, run, deep into the woods where nobody can find you or ever hear you whisper in sharp, brutal gasps for air, clenching the object of your fraternization and fascination hard, hard in your hand so it slips past your finders in the blue and you watch the sun rise one last time as the squirrels chirps of monkey business in fine suits tailored with matching bow ties and bowler hats, making Disney twist and turn in the grave like an undead zombie craving grape juice from Klingon where the autocorrect WILL kill you if you do not shut up and sit down to enjoy the show, the view and life in general. Stop. Stop. The cat is on the loose and prey, pray, it does not matter for it will get you in the end with claws, stings, sharp objects and scissors that you do not run very fast with as the ring on your little finger begins calling for you and asks you to pick up a dozen breakfast breads of loaf to carry with you in your handbasket that you up to this point did not know you had strapped to the back of the jack in the box, locked away in the shiny room with walls of flowers that tasted so good. In a world inhabited by computers, dog tags and words misleading beans could bring you astray where the ash and trays rests in the silver mud, no knock, not knocked up, no doorbell on this side of eternity without blue aliens of only one sex who reproduces by stiff ones in the lips, upper lip, mind you, the lower one is for she who is not a vampire to bite with and you do not want to deprive her of that pleasure for that would be very rude and not very considerate of you at all. Bells. Bells. Bells toil. Bells call. The bell, the bell, the graveyard bell, the bell in the tower, the church bell, the bell of silver and gold, the chalice hanging upside down in the pantry hiding and playing seek me out for it is not what it appears to be and white socks tickled with blood runs in the family of shifters and sneakers, no mercy, no fight, no twopence or tuppence sliding down into your picked pockets of stolen goods – they took the pocket, after all – and now you are wondering why you have been able to block out so much of what you have read that you have no idea what the purpose of this exercise even was to begin with and the irony is not lost upon the wall you peak through to stare into the face of the one behind the fourth and the fight.