Nico is playing silently, then voice gets louder and louder. Gets inside my lobes.. I cant resist her. She is here. Slight shiver. A dangerous creator. Recently I smoke to much, He told me, it's bad. And that happiness is an illusion. That I just need to do what I was doing and never surrender. I agreed. He told me that moments are there to cherish and that nostalgic memories are killing us. I just nodded. He was kind and gentle. I was high. Pills where taking over. It was one of the thous evening when everything could just be perfect. The spell was on. Crossroads.
On my way home I fall it to a light gaze of warm nothing. That gaze is keeping me in it's arms day by day.
As one character form Muratova's movie sad " I would give this world a rate zero". She was completely right.
Bottle is opened, table is perfectly clean. I think it's a point when the obsession with cleaning reached it's highest point. Drowning in air fresheners, wooden floor cleaners, sink polishers, antibacterial materials. It's my domestic right to leave this kingdom spotless. Obey the domestic master.
Who the fuck is he? - question went in to emptiness. He is here all the time. Day time, night time, no time - all time. He has a twisted smile. He makes doors move at night and turns off the coffee pot in the mornings. I hate him!
I have tried to shoot him, to drown him, to strangle him, to cut his throat, to poison him, to feed him, to love him... to eliminate him. But he is everywhere. I feel the breeze coming from my right, staring.
No shape, no name, no age. He smells of death and hair conditioner. Take IT away! Remember. Forget. Forgive.
Sounds of ambulance sirens. The room is closing-in and brings up memories. Like waters on full moon. Nothing comes home again. Trying to focus on neediness and inflammations. Wishes are dismembered. There is no owners and no landlords. No civil right. No escape roots. Po polishers. No tranquilizers. All and everyone is used-up. Motivations went down the drain combined with bleach which is used to for feel the need of determination. Tomorrow,tomorrow. It's a new day...
Coffee, morning waters, shops, books, computer screens, lipstick, bus stops. Tons and tons of nicotine. People, crowds and crowds of lost, humiliated, disoriented people. tick-tack... tick-tack. Alarm clock's, breakfast. Nutritious, milk bottles. More coffee, more nicotine, more lipstick. More of everything that could change the way voice is moderating the maps. Brushes, color patters, color structures, color balances. Researches, tutors, more lipstick. Fabulous, I'm just fabulous. Oh, what a wonderful composition. Oh sure, lets go out to a movies some time. Yes, lecture, of course I will. Trips, gigs, London, Tate museum, Copenhagen, Birmingham. All all of that. Morning, coffee and more nicotine and more lipstick. And more of the thing we used to call daily artistic routine. Arguing about nothing, showing off the artistic knowledge. Pushing my brain to read and suck in more and tuns more of information, used, unused, cooked, boiled, row, chewed-up, spit-out. Empty glasses, bottles, cigarette-buts, ashes, pages and pages, paper on the wooden flours, movies. Subjective movements. Waiting rooms. Phone call. Holding lines. Google maps. Corners, main roots, side walks, allies, turns, street light, elevators, taxi drivers, bus stops, bags, backpacks. Insanity.