1. Pathetic nations of the world (all)
2. A memoir of my twenties: “the roaming twenties”
3. Flowered tattoo (friendly design)
4. A pick me up (101)
5. To avoid being gone
6. To lie more comfortably
7. In any bed
8. ok, that’s it
A man takes the subway all day to avoid reception on his cell-phone
That’s the here and now only
A girl avoids her boyfriend by sleeping at a friend’s house
This has been going on for some time
Little Ned needs to be set straight, he thinks he can scream as loud as he can on the bus
An antelope dies from Cheetah bites, I know
Brimming with confidence dreams life starts to resembles lifes dreams.
A house gets infected with bird-mites and nothing is done, period
A friend wondered how one started philosophy
Think about it, he said
Bank accounts with money, lots of money
Think about it. Don’t think about it
If someone came up to you and asked: what does Fictary mean? You would answer: Oh so you read that great blog too. And then you’d smile and say: To me it means the world, and you wouldn’t be lying. You wouldn’t. If you had a sore shoulder that day, a fictary description would allow that fact some leeway. It would become a great wound, a sleeping disaster and something you could barter with. Everyone needs some intimacy. Use yours. I plan to fictary my way into a different mood soon, and it’ll be great. I envy myself this ability, this writing self of mine. I admire him too. Not too much. Just enough. But back to the manifestly more interesting part of this. Now that I’ve taken up sides there’s no going back. I’ll try to of course. I’m stupid that way, thinking 30 seconds back and forth. Could you mention my yellow motorbike you think, and the way that I sing as I catch bullets with my imagination? And my castle in Uruguay. I sold it sometime back. Oh just do it, will you - for me?
The double basses, fully carved flatbacks, three of them, reverberated with such force I could hardly sit still. They sounded like a ballroom crowd, the wood squeaking under the weight of 500 hundred heels, the bows in unison and arms and hands in unison up and down the neck. She was sitting behind the mezzo-soprano just to the left of the tenor. Hair cut fashionably. But there was nothing high-street about her. I Looked at her. Lightly holding the violin and reading the music. She looked at me. And I swear I was lost again. I closed my eyes. Dies Irae. Let the bass thump a hole in my anterior abdominal wall. I would deserve it.
She insisted we take the picture the way she wanted it. And I yelled no: you’re not our boss. That’s when the bus woke me up and I realized how insanely tired I was, forgetting to call the romantic and call off the appointment; that’s gonna cost me dearly. Some days the coffee is not as hot. This puzzles me. The door-bell rang. I ignored it. On the way to the station I walked past the same old man and the same old woman, they thought: here comes the same young man, thinking there goes the same old people. What a waste of time. Hint: look at someone’s hands to determine their age. Only four weeks til Christmas, must remember.