foreword

Dust on the mixer, dust on the egg shakes on the mixer. The notepad icons on the desktop containing ideas that were never finished, and still aren’t. My belt holder in the form of a second-hand keyboard sitting on two plastic chairs, effects processors for the guitar remaining in their un-progressive stage.

I am in stasis.

And after the pictures on the orange surface beside me fade, they fall. Within the collage there now exists some emptiness. It’s a nice change, considering how it stopped expanding a long time ago. I think the mealworms are all dead, although I’m not totally sure about it. I replenish their food every day anyway, just to watch them get moldy and turn bad.  It’s been years and I’m not anything more than I was before.

Then comes the realization that world is still getting old - I am stasis.

I would call this insomnia.

It was oddly unexpected, the comfortable feeling that crept up settled in me as we ascended into the area filled with warm reverberation - odd because it was unanticipated. It was different, and yet the same as I had experienced the year before at the same event. Oddly surprising, the familiar quiet respect for each other.

I need the company.

Iris Judotter, I look forward to coffee and a good catching up (though I’m not in the mood to run) in about 7 hours.

Insomnia makes me write.

Being able to sit at my computer and check my mail at the last hours of the day instead of the first is a luxury that provides me with an uncommon sort of calm - the knowledge that the day that we measure with numbers is not over just yet.

It is a time when the house isn’t brimming with activity, and yet isn’t wholly unconscious either. Cars can still be heard outside, though it is unknown whether they are being driven on the way home, or out for drinks. Television sounds emanating from the living room, mixed perfectly with the Breaking Benjamin track from my brother’s room to create such a nostalgic and homely atmosphere…

… Wait. Breaking Benjamin? My brother’s listening to Breaking Benjamin?

The world is moving in rectangles.

Food is like a foot massage, something to reward yourself with for a day well-lived. Except for me it’s a foot massage all through the day, even for nothing well-done (besides steaks). I don’t like grapes many days old, because they turn sour and start browning at the sides, it does not look good. Although how you define the sides of the grape is very subjective.

Food is therapy, only with good company. And the right food. Carl’s Jr and Al Azhar make the top few in the list.

To bake or not to bake? That is the question.

The unconscious concern of a blessedly oblivious friend reminded me not to head towards that low a level;

and therefore I shall not. Sanity, where art thou?

… Well it’s going to be pretty far away for a long time, all the way in France - so I’ll be stuck with henny, darn.

I think you’ve become ugly.

And every time you look at her distant eyes you are haunted by her torment; mind trapped in the clutches of the demons that thrive within it in the night, its shell only barely where it is.

To err is human - yet is it true that only when that errand is done do we see humanity in her? Nay - rather, only when it is done do we see humanity:

The self-conservation of our conservationists,

The culpability of the responsible.

And every time you look at her clouded eyes are you tormented by her haunting? Or are you only obliviously trapped in the clutches your demon, your shell only barely where it is..?

An afternoon unwasted!

Last night it rained really hard, thunder booming so hard that even car alarms sounded from the vibrations; winds raging so frenziedly that my windows were unmercifully blown open, and even when I closed them they howled persistently; as if they were asking to be let in, to a sanctuary away from the sky’s tantrums.

They should learn to knock.

The world is a colourful place. Much more than the different shades of blue in the wordpress dashboard page. Much more than the different shades of blue some people might be feeling at this moment. I like colour, it makes life interesting. There’re some I wouldn’t prefer, say yellow alone, or beige, or a weird shade of red. But it’s fine if they happen to be there.

There’s a story behind every person which never fails to fascinate. Ever-changing depths of the massive ocean just waiting to be discovered, hidden trails and tunnels that even veteran divers have yet to discover, but a passing school of fish can easily become acquainted with. The different directions from which the sun stares, a distinct sundial with the passing of every minute.

Hasty first impressions, I try not to cement them. Below that oil-covered sea can be a world unexpected; a world of life on death, and the hereafter.

You are so beautiful to me

It’s only the present that matters most, it’s where the tools lie (lay?), it’s where power can be found. Not in abundance, but if you just look hard enough - things aren’t as bad as they might seem. They’re just things, they’re meant to be unthinged, so just unthink and everything’s gonna be alright, rockabye.

The furball has little hair and can play one kind of dead - the Slow Death.