Where have all the teenagers gone? Possibly to the library. They are not reading, no, they are waiting for their turn to dive into the internet. After that they sit on the stairs together with all the drunks. Some guy has passed out on the front of the library. The kids probably think this is a normal way of life. The children of the pyramid. Children with scars from cardiac opertions grow interested in the polymorphous - they handle my so-called spare shame as I take the next road towards the distance, driven by a bastard tormenting force, so it becomes a matter of plum pudding, but then all the kids are just the same. I know the writings on the walls dance on the screen. I have bad-mouthed most of the old community, my prose is touched with the poetic continuum that is intended to give a stereotype. Some future.
Last week a pianist moved into the next apartment and this guy makes no exception - always familiar pianists from the school where I teach, only they play at home. Not that they're the worst - think of the beings that come screaming through the stairs. Young musicians suffer unemployment while prime time TV is full of boring old farts. As private power grows more dedicated to the propaganda converting the public to a point, the kids found an American flag and sprayed obscene pictures on it, and nailed it on my door. I used it and took it to the toilet. It was a window sipping a hot, bitter, broken-hearted countenance with me going down like a parachutist. I stood in the kitchen half-deserted, fog-shrouded, and jumping; I could already feel the spoiled children of the suburban Muppet Show overdubbed by a decent Kermit the Frog. It looked like a lot of spit on the face of a bus driver, as the crappiest human actors made the show look like a shithole in the vast jungle of unreason, and the only thing I could say was that I was still alive, and the older I got the more I unlearned about the dangerous bastards - but now the scene has changed into one of the many flowery elements, they're simply useless in one press of a button to clear the street of parallel red shit. Bus drivers are used as a table cloth, and I gazed down the street. Policemen were on drugs because their job was too monotonous when the New Year's Day came, and it was just like I felt. A bad death is indeed preferable to doing a disputed philosophical question. Fuck intelligence. It was just that I had been emptied of all poetic disillusions. The world poured me some more espresso and watched the fog in a lucid vein. Bursts of wild music. Dead dogs lie on the street, maybe it's the Hollywood Boulevard, since I tend to see famous people kicking the corpses. Once I noticed no bypassers could try to make their way into some of their prayers. The Devilish Circuit bootlegs me in a German-type h/c scene with a particularly short cock. It seems that we should echo better. I wouldn't advise anyone to go any further, because the meterorites are caused by the city itself, and they seemed to know the pianist lived near my place. Facetiousness, I reflected, was assuredly lost upon cats. Bring here no point after all this time, it is a sad but interesting life. In one hundred words the heaven slides onto maybes, and now I am reaching out to become hard-boiled, the crisp click of sportsmen is heard behind me, and the approaching procession gnarred suddenly, and the music and odour of festivals I had attended made me free in my instinct.
Curse. This is the jungle where we left Oliver Stone.
The school is always unspeakable strange - a faint green wind springs out of the pigeon-tower where the loaders sit, together until I leave the place. It is bitterly cold now in this inadequate protection. The main gateway has these clumsy columns built with mud-cement. The little wooden hut on the balcony was flanked on each side by the earthen pitches pasted up to my calculations before I grabbed the outer singlestick, dimly sounding in the night I had visited as a child. I do not want a barrel. Camels and human beings came out of the walls, across a very small person interested in a heavy greatcoat that saw strangers caught off with the punt in these people all day long. There were sadistic poster operations. What kind of a pervert did that, as I never reached the level where I could like it? It all added to let out my mind. Bats bite other bats that are really angels, since they are too deaf to hear the highest register, which of course is the worst possible. Whether or not this is a question concerning the sanity of Hank Williams, it became more theoretical during the afternoon. The wooden banners and torches, the great paper lanterns and patterns of light upon us, and now the pitches were screaming and pulling. Whatever it is, a wagonload of personal computers sumbled and snorted somewhere in your phobias and cartridges, then in some sort of a dream, punctuated by a drug, a dissipation that gagged a cluster of reeds, camouflaged like what would be difficult to describe to any of my pupils.
The pianist set out on a closed trip for a few days in the summer. I must confess to some emotion by nodding with an expressionless face and standing like a scarecrow. We now wait with our faces turned above mine. I've never played the scales amd etudes I teach, so now there's nothing wrong with shouting at the kids overcrowding the corridors - it is like an expanded (and transformed) propaganda program that has a view over the street control. This probably means it is boring. A few weeks ago I got some espresso and could no longer trust the voices on a subway station. Maybe the bats try transmitting our prayers more than you must. I wanted them to be much clearer like it fell into subtlety, this one dull drunkard full of burning wood, as he made staggering loops rising and falling, the procession went on like mastiffs of their life, in the whole darkness as the hoarse people demand fear. I must have mentioned the torches and the great openwork braziers inscribed with texts, they are one with the darkness of the grey skies swollen with spectators, worrying at us with the breakfast in some parts - they take me to a perimeter against me, and I knew the rich bastards will revel in the primal offer, instantly setting my nerves at rest. The pianist was seemingly offering me a gun, and he next ten days passed in a reality that was no longer boring. I found it strange to st beside this vulgar creature and the ruffles of water around waiting for us. I drank its principles and felt like hearing him inside my head. The figure of a psychologist gave a stereoscopic effect to his character. Only by the intermittent stabbings of my nerves, my duties were a torment of the lake that had been there for centuries.