I’m alone, sweet alone
I'm alone, sweet alone. Words never come easy. Sentences run loose and runny, lacking the same zest as the red wine I bought. A little too cold, a heavy touch too clammy.
Baba Lybek. Uh, yeah. And the story on Gifu. Hand-drawn, cut 'n paste. Killer hot. And my hands dry and without surface circulation. Indecision. Cold floors. Balled up toes.
A Friday night.
Short stories, bittersweet. Of childhoods forgotten. Or relationships ended. I have nothing to talk about. Where is my voice?
Not satisfied with the words. Oh no, not at all. Do I rearrange them, massage them, gently stroke their every dip and curve? No. No, again. The words are less ones and more zeros. Zeros as in null, empty, void of meaning. At least meaning in context. Context of expression of emotion.
No. No. No. Good word, that. Very good. Short, powerful. Like something else I know and love (I like to think). No. Also descriptive. I feel a little “no” today. I feel a little “no” many days. At least since I lost myself.
Friday night. Still. Stupid CD player. Repeating itself without me noticing. Tired. Looping thoughts. Stuck in a scratch. Misu's writing yet another book. Crazy bitch. I love her.
Bad boy?
By the time I got home, the pizza was cold. Stupid pizza. Man hits woman. “I can buy my own cider!” A domestic fight. Woman walks away. Man follows at a distance, turns around. Woman gets on tram. Answers cell phone. “No, you hit me.” Cell phone rings. ... “Okay, I'm coming.”
This is enough. I'm going out. Where's Janne?
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