Here jerk. I hope that I can open up a new body. Throw this one away. It is no use to me at all. It only seems to let me down. And I'm not sure who made up the rules anyway. For how meant years are we meant to do this. It is never enough for anyone to just be who you are. There is no rhyme or reason to the rules. The signs are linked together but they have no form. No logic. It all seems insane. Maybe inane. Maybe empty. For the time being I will stitch my mouth shut and write myself freedom. It is the only way. Use my clicking and strokes to open space. To get out of old functions. You must! You must! Why? What for? Who thinks, here, after all? I am not to be found. There is no thing as a unified I. Eye. Two eyes, have this creature. Multiple. I does not think. Thinking thinks. This is the tale of the French.
No one ever thinks that the guy next to you at work is the monster. Instead, we search under our beds and down dark alleyways, looking over our shoulders at every glance in fear of a monster lurking in the shadows. But who's to say that we are really safe anywhere? I thought I was safe at work. And I was. But poor young girl, she wasn't. She worked in the same building, with the same people, but her safety was stolen away when he thought he could get away with something. He took every bit of her and broke her down. He belittled her and embarrassed her name, all to get what he wanted. A small office, a young helpless girl, and his restless hands. Where does it stop?
rhythmically, the tap dripped and the sewing machine whirred as he clinked on the edge of the glass while stirring the liquid.like clockwork, he heard a nervous tapping on the green arched door.cool air rushed into the room causing the chain on his pocket watch to swing gently.
sliding down her hood, she revealed to him her long tendrils of golden curls which were arranged perfectly to frame her angelic face. exchanging a small smile, he stepped aside, inviting her inside.
watching intently, she noticed how the grooves that had been dug into his forehead over the years resembled crop rows.his worn hand reached out for hers and the warmth of his palm settled the cold of her fingers and together, they found balance
Why is there a writer's fixation about the sea? I'm probably not a real writer then. Because all the great ones had this obsession about that dark blue giant pool (or, sometimes, about the skies - made of the same blue). I prefer to write about a guy taking a shit, staring at his toenails - that need to be cut.
Ugh, the sea. Is it because of the vast emptiness of a never-ending blue? Does that reflect the inside of a true writer? A sight the goes way deep into nothingness. Yeah, I can see why it appeals. But, still, it does not inspires me. I might as well continue to write about dirty toilets.
The Barbershop runs at night. Each costumer has it's own story to share. All the chairs are covered with a black leather.
The barber hears each story like we read a book. In every phrase is sort of magic, that keeps the whole barbershop warm and bright.
Everything gains life as the words come out their mouths and the scissors clings and cuts and the beards get trimmed.
As the barbershop closes, the stories remain.