It is raining and we are - again - confined to sitting inside. We find our way to the café where we used to work in another era - three exciting weeks ago. It still offers great coffee and great smiles. I am writing here, but absent-mindedly. Have I ever written anything, "ever", and "any" being audible punches in my own face, that did have a mind present in it? Oh Vanity, how anonymously we are cuddled in your clutching claws as if writing is ever spirited as if goblins of mind are ever tripping and tipping on our interpunction. So how do we feel? Can our feeling be enhanced by the words, that that would be their only meaningful contribution let's face it. The whole concept of vanity a word itself, invented to tear us out of the muddy waters to induce some deity and dignity into our pointless swampridden ventures? Somehow this doesn't depress me does it? We create gods thinner than air and angels with African butts falling from the skies and turning into baobab trees. We have been making this world liveable with our tongues - that is what we are good at. So I am writing about some breakfast we took somewhere and what we did afterwards, what-ever we did afterwards. The will to say something out of the ordinary, to describe the human condition more meticulously than has been done before, precise and sterile seeing them turn into transparent brittle crystalline dolls and then asking the freakin' question if these dolls do have a condition. It's organic pal, pulsating and pumping and undescribable. Put your glasses straight and cough, continue writing about the breakfast and whatever you do not do afterwards. Disappointing?
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