In Reverse

As the twilight is devouring chunks of stale air and lumps of the stratosphere contaminated by the toxic waste that flooded Abrëville under the siege of the world’s financial crème de la crème, the room is being lit by words of their own. As Café Club is pulsating with heated debates reflecting on one of the most offensive ways of demonstrating the power of somnambulism in rational skin, the sofa in the room is facing the armchair. Both upholstered and welcoming. Touch of friendly furniture like smell of cinnamon buns on a Sunday morning. While the beach is still bravely barricading the wild waves’ aggressive attacks…like a shady guardian of the city…heavy curtains smile at the infinitesimal daily outburst of comets, spilling a tapestry above and over the wounded ionosphere.

Central to the arrangement of the room is the fireplace. Sovereignly leaning against the wall facing the door, it is, at the same time, overlooking the sofa and the armchair. To the right is a desk. The human-presence-sensitive lamp is lit regardless of who, if anyone, is sitting at the desk. Its sensors cover the whole room. Near the window, to the left of the fireplace, is a chaise longue. The ashtrays are full. The smoke envelopes the rug. Sagging heavily. Like a lazy, overeaten, spoiled child. Like the curtains would, if there were not those rings keeping them in the safely hanging position. Like the mind would, were it not for the antisomnabulist engine driving it. Steadily.

My standpoint is not necessarily exclusively that of a nonexpert anti-postcoital-depression fighter. That is something that I seem to have a problem explaining to anyone who hears any of my verbally communicated thoughts.

And emotions. I’d appreciate if you’d exclude me from the interpreters that you are obviously criticizing assuming that I see an alternative voice in your delivered messages.

Sure, zarry(E). But, let’s see…it is my understanding that a person who imagines a tropical sandy seashore is quite certain to be thinking of Rio de Janeiro. And yet, reality confronts me with the most puzzling clue—no, it is a vision of Sevastopoly. A sense of an exotic place is infused in the imagination…to acquire a particular shape in that person’s mind according to the coordinates in the brain’s duodenum. I am startled, to say the least. And then I am crushed when my bewilderment is interpreted as a desperate, life-long struggle against the demons of the past feeding the reanimated gargoyles of the present.

and then pancakes and then vinegar and then bubbling water and then fiery smile…

Those one sided morons don’t even know what coitus is. Let alone depression. Methinks melikes your kicks ass wierd reasoning.

Appreciate. But, let’s see this, for example. For me, to express one’s affection for a person is to show a decisive disapproval of her or him massacring the following 30 years of one’s life by chopping it, slicing it, cutting it, dicing it, and tearing it into 30 X 12 =  360 increments. For others it is a signal of counterphobic conduct.

and then shaving cream over potato salad and three day old crust on the vomit of a methuselah

Well…one should never underestimate the significance of context: : who says that is what matters.You know…Tell me who and I’ll tell you what kinda thing…You know…

Kinda…But, take this for example…To me, the exalted form of a concern for a fellow cyborg is to think about his or her employment or the lack thereof. Likewise, the supreme way of showing it I consider to be talking to that particular person about the issue that I find to be of importance. And yet, that is taken to be but nosiness of a green, uncalibrated mind. My generous advice for the fellow ladies’n’gents comrades to stay away from a work day longer than 4 hours is more often then not understood as a token of a seriously deranged sense of organization and illdistributed emotional discharge from the compartment of fear.

and then home made humus and then dill dip and then sour cream…whipped!

To fuck with that! I can hear those robozomboid monosyllabic monotones of the short-sighted imbeciles. I wish I could hear them hear themselves! As a grooviologist, I can’t help but notice the fantasticness of daily twenty-hour leisure time. That to me resonates with my favorite slogan: TO HELL WITH DARKNESS. AND CHILL THE FUCK OUT!

Thus spoke this ever-loving mother. Or, rather, such was the approximate content of one of the letters she wrote to her beloved child. According to what I was told by my friend.