"Behind every system, behind every rule stands a corpse and laughs. You can't tell me who I should sleep with. I don't work for wages. My life is a revolution... My life is a beautiful life... What you call freedom, I call waste... I will continue to love my own voice. If everyone becomes me, everything will collapse."

Bruno K. Ă–ijer

Sunday, August 1, 2010

Cerberus

One. The bridge. I needed to say that 5 years ago. No. Now. Perfect timing. A dream. A silence. A plan. A spot. I am out. Cosmos. Do not understand. Two hands = Order. Four hands = Disorder. Shifting ceiling. Windows. Deep breath. Numb territorial looks in to nothing. Lets freeze the moment. Yes. This page is still blank, as the mind is trapped. Days keep wrapping them self's in safety blanket. The reader is curious or maybe the ego of the writer got to big. It is 5.22am. Sleep does not come back to me. Words feel empty. Officially. Means of the end. Check points. Morning glory.
Waking up with falling. Asleep. Expired documents burn the hole for the industry. Habits die hard. Share a bullet not the news. I cant.
What does it bring. The wheel keeps turning. Freeze. Blank. I give advises to everyone. Incomplete.





Want to loose my self in the silence of the endless library. To hear the pages talk and tremble. To swing in Greek Methodology till the endless sunset wash off all the dirt. Guilt is playing it's part. I watched them today.From a corner of the eye. Somewhere far. I know ...
This thing called world keeps sniping around. Too fast. To much.
Hip movements in latex heels. The guilt will kill you. The shade of red lips is a match. Fingernails. They do not speak. I have a thing for same spot. Wallpaper has a stain. Smudges. I can imagine how it was. Black. Last time there was a card game. The Queen of Hearts. She lives with me now. Stupidity. Control the territory. Property. Stock market. Investments in time, back yard, gods, goods, dogs-cats and antique furniture. Times of rave have left us in the past. The story ended. How did it happened that everything touched is left frozen. This path is a freezer with no doorhandles.



I reread the stories I used to adore. Missing the essence of the eternity. Dance. Rotting flower roots never lie. All the priorities are scattered. Eyes ere burning like the album of MZ.4 12. Temple of god hanged it self in the endless sea off bad judgment. The light in the end off the tunnel will come. But not from will, soul or high voltage IKEA light bulbs, it will shine from this laptop.
The machine that could tell a thousand stories but will keeps them to it self. A selfish device constructed to keep us in the cubicles and will for the bitter end with health insurance. We are afraid of nakedness, confessions and truth. Tho fight for it as it means something more then just phrases on the paper. So how did it happened, that every thought was already digested by someone. That all there is could be packed to a box size 2 by 2. Home is replaced my liqueur cabinet and usb hard-drives. We, the ones of tomorrow and yesterday have no today. So if, it is really possible, that the phones bills would bring more then numbers, maybe the layout would change. And just maybe, the endless labyrinth would not be guarded by the mighty Cerberus.




Don't drown in your cubical.



Good night,
Sonia Dietrich

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