Time of the Bed

– The suppressed warmth is worst kind of warmth there is. It comes out as hot rage, as frustration at the absence of the one thing one wants. There are frowns after every laughter and a torture that comes by the distortion of memories. And the worst people, in the haver’s mind, are the causes of the suppression. And because all have their share, all are hated, all are shunned away. Thus he becomes lonely and the cause of his own suppression. He listens to music to console himself, tries to get lost in it as all those around him do. But the only place he truly gets lost at is his own unnatural hopes, his happy, precise, irrational inventions that may never come true. So he runs again. Each time further, until he regrets and tries to return, but never can. He tries to rebuild, then hopes for too much and becomes ruined, again and again. Repetition fucks with him for the entirety of a lifetime.

– Then what, daddy?

– Why, he becomes happy ever after.


The Vendor’s Marketing

As it appears, one must drink tea to be rid of the pains. But there’s only so much tea in the world, poured into the mouths each moment and shrinking in volume each second. Little is left of it for me. There’s not enough to calm the pain, and it bursts away, breaking all in its path. And once it bursts, there’s no time to look for the tea. One can only endure. And how can pain be endured? That is the purpose of it, to be unendurable, to be a thing to run from, so that we can know what keeps us from existing and what we mustn’t ever confront. But what if we cannot run? What if it stems from the same corners that all our most vital thoughts stem from? What if it is a part of us, and we are too powerless to ignore ourselves? Then it bursts and we drown for some minutes, some long minutes, in that pool of pain, and there’s not much we can do but try to keep from foolishness and passion. And once the pool dries, once the agony lessens, there comes guilt, and blaming and curses for once again losing. Then there comes the tea, glass after glass, to feel an illusion of control and power. But that is the trick of it: it only bursts when one least expects. When one is furthest from the tea.

The Audience

“Hello, masters of this land. I have come to speak to you of the strangeness of my life. I’ve been a man of little force, with little trace on the world. I’ve even followed the neighbours to my life and done things that did not need doing; been an immoral animal, one might say, with little will of my own. But here I am, at last, quite ready to do the one thing I must do, to describe this life I led. Please, record this moment, in mediums less feeble than your tongues, for at least a generation or two must know that I told you of my life. I wish for the worlds to know, for the sentimental aliens and rugged worm societies to see that I tried at least, to describe my life and to make it immortal. Do you know what I truly wish for, you wonderful monsters of this land? I wish for that mouse, in its toils and sweats and when pushing around objects of value and when freakishly running away from all the dangers of the world that come after it to devour it into an empty abyss, I wish for that mouse to know, somewhere in its mind, that such a man existed, on this podium, in front of you monsters, orating the life he’d led and telling of the feelings and the misfortunes. I wish for you, my monsters, my deer loved ones, to spread the word, to tell them of what they do not know, to say, “O ordinary creatures, o those of little knowledge and perception, o you strong and you feeble minds, let me tell you of such a man, of such a podium, of his stance and his great speech, of the life filled with the strangest of emotions, of the words. Let me tell you, for it is important, utterly significant that you understand. Let me explain how great his words were and how beautiful and strange his life. Let me tell you, you poor people, going on with your lives without such crucial knowledge. Let me tell you of this man.” You shall say this to them, and they shall become eager to know and to understand my being here and my strange life. You shall tell them, my friends, my loved ones, you monstrous things. Tell them of what I have told you. Tell them of my odd life and keep all the words in your hearts, think of them each morning and each night. Now, my time is up. I shal leave this height and you shall tell the others of the peculiar things you heard. Tell them, force them to know, for they deserve it. You monsters, you shall be the ones to say of what important things I spoke today.You shall be the ones to relay. Go on now, and I shall go as well, as my time is up. Go on. Your duties await you, you gorgeous monsters. Let the world know of me and of this podium and this day. Go on before they pull me down and push me out of this stage. Hurry up, go along. The world needs your work, your dedication. Hurry up. No excuse can be accepted. None at all. Hurry up.”

To Be

I have with me a bowl of rice, rice so delicious, so pure. When I taste it, it melts into me and becomes such a part of me, such a part, that I only wish to have all my nerves upon it, in it, surrounding it, and grow numb in all places elsewhere. There is a sweetness in it hidden behind the bland austerity and I cannot help but capsize and delve in. There is an awful delight with it. So much that when there comes a passerby I scream, “Here, here, taste some of this lusciousness, it is gold, it is none less than gold, or diamonds, or other such nonsense. This rice feeds the soul, becomes the soul itself, gives the soul its greatest fuck, the best pleasure. Come, come, here, taste some. There is a lot, enough for the both of us to pass through this celestial gate. Come, here, come.” The passerby becomes frightened of the agitation, mistaking it for some evil trait or other, and walks hastily away, and I take the bowl and scamper after him. But the bowl hampers me, with its grave motions and spills, and I cannot run much further. I stand and taste the rice again. Pure, the worthiest thing of all, it is. But he did not wish to try. What made the man so unwilling? I could not fathom. It may hurt, as that kicks in crying pussies, but I still have the rice, the bowl. It is as if made of the milk of the angels, or the grounded, discoloured olives of paradise. It melted into me, and became such a part. Another passerby comes. I tentatively try, tell her of what she could become one with, but she laughs and I draw back, embittered. She, too, walks away, still a chuckle inside her, and I begin to feed on the rice again. One cannot become sick of it, or wish for a creamy, sugger-ridden dessert and dream of that while the rice is touched by my intoxicated tongue. It is the appetizer and entree and afters mashed into the peak of peaceful pleasure. Then another comes by, and she wishes to see the bowl, and taste of it, but she would not know. She would only pretend, at best, as she does now, and I scowl at her and cuss her out for her stance, and I resume my delight, taking no note of the vengeful pain I leave in her.

The Great Battle of Time and Bullshit

They talked shit and made such laughing noises that the worlds shook and the skies broke and the gods came down and shouted, “Who, who on this earth has done such blasphemy? The fools, the dicks, the pieces of shit, tear them into pieces with your godly magics!” “Alright!” the thus-far-silent gods screamed, and they prepared and spoke their divine words and thought their magic thoughts and the laughers were torn away, the shit untalked, the skies stitched together, and the worlds all nicely tidied up.

Good Sweet Memories of a Nice Childhood

Little Billy said to his mama, “Mama, can I eat that too?” “No,” said his mama, “Piss off. This is for me, you little shit.” “I’m little Billy,” said little Billy, “not little shit, mama.” “What’s the difference?” his mama asked. Wow, little Billy thought, mama doesn’t know everything. “Mama, little shit is body excrement that is minuscule in size, but little Billy is me!” His mama said to him, “And you’re my body excrement, you little shit.” “Ooh,” said little Billy. “Can you take me to the bathroom then, mama? I want to see my own little Billies!” Then little Billy and his mama laughed and laughed and lived happily ever after.

Statistical Uncertainty In Legendary Tales of Days of Yore

One mustn’t forget the deeds of the thirteen young men who strove for this goal. On their way, they sweat such sweat that we, the selfish, ordinary creatures, only sweat in a lifetime, or perhaps half a lifetime, or more, for I am not sure. Of course when I speak of our sweats, I speak of the sweats of the average male of my surroundings, for I am only acquainted with my surroundings, and also as it would only be sensible to compare the sweats of the thirteen men with other ordinary men rather than women. Though then there is the fact that I, your humble narrator, mostly know of the sweats of men I have gone to gyms with, or stood in a bus at rush hours with, which is bound to be an skewed sample of the sweats of people. For not only do gymgoers sweat incessantly, but the rush hour buses also only contain a certain demographic of the population, mainly professionals and working men without cars living and working at a few certain areas, themselves home to certain social classes. But of course, by disposing of the gymgoers and keeping the bus users, one can reach a reasonably representative sample of the average male person’s quantity of sweat, and thus can conclude that the sweats of the thirteen young men in their strives are quite a lot.