Thoughts always stray into fiction, fiction that is more like a fantasy than anything constructive or creative, fiction around the flesh. Hands sliding down the same cracks over and over again; working on the same breasts over and over; lips through the same kisses, till some stirrings make a grab for attention – more often going acknowledged. Where’s the boy of the wonderworld, who would wander out and wonder if it’s a nice day for airstrikes – Viorar vel til loftarasa? With a displacement in musical preferences comes a displacement in personality. Though associating self - described above - with (a newfound appreciation for) The Flaming Lips would be sacrilege, it’s the missing Sigur Ros, Pink Floyd, and the power of suggestion that rattles.
Been reading a lot - strokes of the pen promoted to the masses in the form of a printed and neatly bound book. But reading has brought its own negatives: to recall I’m presently at Catch 22; before this Flatland, and before that Vernon God Little, and to begin it all with was Confederacy of the Dunces; all the legendary reads these have been, these have appointed a critic in me, or a realist that sees the world with great bewilderment/ridicule and feels irascible at all the subtle asshole-ness of the humans comprising of this humanity.
My friend Yogesh asked me to be less deprecating of things. From this it is not to be assumed that he carries an innocent outlook; nobody could say that once having met him; one should see him on his flamboyant days, at his temperamental best (constructively) with a healthy loathing of it all. His thought patterns move like a sinusoidal wavefront that crest in the moments of temper and slick the troughs when he’s at his romantic best. Probably his romantic best brings out his dimensions. FAG here would not know about that ;)
Here's a small poem I wrote:
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