play me ->

 No, they had wine enough to breed back juices in the supermarket and have them flood their livers with the only pure liquid Earth ever had- water. How do you think we made juice in the first place? Well, there sure weren’t trees like these growing back then. Son, you will grow up, and you will sooner than I use the phrase „back in my time” and then you will understand how time changes. A simple look at a clock and you have the thought of giants weighting down their existence on your unconcious, trying to test your imagination, seeing if your soul „has it”- a simple image of a boy sleeping on the alley and I know he hasn’t had his hit in months,,,maybe years. No, don’t assume I know the person, it is merely the look in his eyes that tells me the mirror he hasn’t looked into for ages scares him more than the idea of not having another dip. I don’t understand, look, if there’s something which makes you fear, then you have to take into consideration that the respective feeling you are experiencing comes from within you. SO, the bigger a fear, the more energy you have canalized into it. NOW, imagine what would happen to that energy once you overcome that fear? LEVEL UP, you say?! I THINK NOT. More like BOSS UP, sir, you are in for a treat if you think time won’t have his say at the end of the ticking feather, fur to be confused with when one finds himself awake in the pool of his own blood. Shake him, kick him, yell at him, he won’t budge if you don’t tell him something which will interest him. That’s what people don’t seem to grasp onto. Someone puts into a conversation as much as he think he ill get out of you by having the respective conversation. Okok, you might say, not everyone is like that. And I agree with you, BUT, we all are made out of roots, and it is there where this feeling is born from. If you go inside with a cloack and three feathers hanging from your spinal cord, you will truly press your feet towards the ground as if wanting to hug it in such a violent way- the only way, if you ttruly want to test your friends- sa to test it if it will hold up his curiousity. That’s what we used to do as kids and forgot. We used to make something which could easily be perceived as insignificant, not intereseting, banal chiar. If we acted out something, we had to have a cloack, of a mustache, or if we didn’t have any music, it wouldn’t matter- the world didn’t seem such a boring place, all you had to do was ignore it and give it a chance... the sexualeliberation one must have at the end of his fistis quite the most outrageous image you tend to witness as a boy. But it’s not the image that builds your enthusiast for the real thing, it’s mostly the porn you watch. So, asamom, if you truly want to havean influence over what type of women your son will date, then you ought to have an open relationship with your son over the subject of sex and porn. Adults tend to draw themselves away from these things, isolating their most powerful weapon they have as grown-ups: experience. What if I don’t tend to witness my actions as I fear they won’t satisfy my eyes with the hunger I had as a child when I’d keep my eyes open in order to see as clear as possible the dream I was then having, not closing my eyes for closing them would have gratified the fact that I was calling it a dream, when in fact imagining it never felt less real than the reality I was obligated to look at each day, each morning when I would open my eyes, erasing yet another memory from my concious, transporting yet another thought into my realm of „things-I-will-never-    -again”.........the sound of water as it goes through the drain pipes gives one the tendincy of hearing footsteps reach closer to his earlobes, for if one can’t see an image it means the respective energy is „invisible” , or is under the cloack of another universe which block or view of their body. Not stopping even for one moment to consider that maybe, just maybe, it’s something which manifests itself only through audio. Every day, every moment of our passing lives, we spend them in chaos and chaos, and run past it in small steps, run,asif running would do us any different, as if moving our legs would make a difference towards the point we were being headed, as if commuting is enough. Not stopping even for one moment to consider that maybe, just maybe, if one would pay more attention to his surroundings, to his or her own chaos, then maybe, JUST MAYBE, when in contact with things one doesn’t understand, he will have the ability to relate it to something different other than...well, other than fear. Fear is an interesting thing. It’s starts with F, for some reason, it ends with R, which is a reason to dwell about, and in the middle it has two vowls, two eyes, two ears, touches and walks, breaths- BUT, it has just one mouth, since it’s just one word, one heart, one nose, one genital. But, since it’s into chaos we’re developing this idea, letters might sometimes confuse themselves. Consonants might try to be vowels, not try, but actually act as if they were so; 2 vowels would steal the number 4 from four letters; a noun is no longer „just a noun” when given the liberty to express itself. Of course, like any other man made thing, it requires for one to listen in order for the other to be able to talk in the first place. AH, you are going to forget soon, but it is chaos we are developing this idea out of. How does one feeling get to talk? Through it’s users, you might think. And good, it is a good answer. Through it’s users. by making one talk to another, feelings are allowed to connect with one another procreate (what, you thought I used the word „genital” purely for comical reasons...well, I did). What comes out of their connection will determine how two people feel in the presence of each other. This is the „energy” you talk of. Energy, like any other „thing” , is made out of the accumulation of more „things”. The gauntlet has fallen and the worrior has yet to find his head. But eventually one does the impossible and learns to live without it. What can I say...it’s easier to achieve miracles when you have just one head (as a man) or just one (as a woman).oh, and so it begins. What, for some has it been a while, for somf some has it been an fucking mosquitos, if they wouldn’t be threatening my silence with their annoying ittle buzzing, then I wouldn’t hav to kill them so savagely. You know, I even talk to the motherfukcers. I tell them, i tell them they should get out. They sshould fly out the open door and meet their pray there. But then, I stand to realize that their pray is actually inside of the house. I realize their pray is my family. And what does anyone do when the blood of their own blood is endangered? They fucking fight back, that’s what they do. S scratch on my moms face means a fucking life of yours, cat. I feed you you fucker and you jump up and attack my mom. Look, at me, in this house, in this universe, I am the GOD of my actions, so I stand to tell you here that as long as I have fingers on my hand, i will use them to gauge your fucking eye balls out; as long as I have toes on my feet, I will use them to make you lick the fucking brown out of them until you think I was washed by a payd worker; look at my teeth you fuck- as long as i have them- look at my fucking teeth I said! As long as you see them shine so fucking dark in your eye sockets, I will use them to remind you that there’s something worse than losing your eyesight... I damn me if I won’t bite your fucking tongue out...we got really aggresive, didn’t we, Mr Finch. Well, what shall we do about it, then? I say we should send you to the principals office, no? I say, we should have you sit in the corner and imagine how fucking embaressing it is to have all your friends talk about it after the recess; I saw we should have you suck my dick, if we’re still at it; I say, I should be already calling your mom and having her suck your dick, as a mfvnkdlis idsn fn iiosdj llkkdkkdi ghcunrm fnaudso  fnnsikfndn skdinc fnskingeins f  if she still wants her son to be attending this school; I say, we should forget it ever happened; I say, it doesn’t matter Mr Finch, it doesn’t matter; I say all of these things, but what I won’t be saying is: Do you still have some of that weed, man? I saw you taking a few hits before coming to class, and watching you put so much passion in your essay made me curious of just how fucking wrecked will I be after we have a few puffs out of that motha’fucker; I completely understand you, Mr Finch. Truth be told, i saw you take sth out of my closet yesterday after gym class. You stalked me, waiting for the moment when I’d leave my locker open, and then took 2 of my big fucking blunts I had prepared for my mom’s birthday. You know, we got her this cat a few years ago, and she scratched her fucking face. You want to know what happened to the cat, Joey? I took her to the river and had her little fluffy fur sunk in the cold water of the Niagra falls. We took a blue plane to the outskirts of the forest and had it land vertically, just like you saw in theat movie last night; truth be told, I won’t be saying any of these things. As a matter of fact, I won’t be saying any of those things either. You see, I’ve been fantasizing about being a creative writing teacher for the past 10 years. It’s been my dream as a little child; to teach people, you know. The only problem I’ve discovered to have is that my way of teaching desn’t seem to be on par with the reality of your everyday-regular-creative-writing-teacher. Had a few books published; they sold. Had a few sessions with other students; they were empty. Even had someone pay me to go and write him his memoire- never got paid. You see, I’ve been going up and down lately, thinking of how the future will bind me to my family. I let them think everything is ok, i let them think everything will be just fine. What they don’t know is that I’ve had their car sold, their house on a second morgedge and even better, the fucking cat they loved so much, I took her to my neighbours daughter and told her she can play with it. You see, that’s not so bad giving the fact that she’s a 6 year old child. The bad thing is that, for some reason or another, her pops doesn’t love cats. I don’t know what happened that night, but we saw animal parts laying all over the city. Believe me, they must’ve been Tickles’s parts; i gathered them all and put them all together, just like in a puzzle. And, you thin kif you just have a few minutes of the table, you will get your bet back? Nonono, don’t you eer think you can fuck over a Chinaski. I wil- pass me that beer, you fucker-, if you want to know, I will personally publish yur fucking novel. Don’t be a pussy, Jack. All tat shit you said in classs, was not shit- it came from your soul. To e able to withstand the humiliation of people having your novel used a toilet paper, for six fucking months, and to come back to me with such a piece of writing- it takes fucking dedication, and you have that kid. I know you didn’t bring this to me for the applauses; you braught it to me because you want my approval to quit this high school. I couldn’t be more on par with you. I know I will have my gains as well, since I’m the one who told everyone about the fire in the first place, but you are something special, and that, I respect. It takes a lot of courage to stand by your side even when your true self is being stomped on by the stupidity and selfishness of others. I will stop this as soon as possible. I will have myself lying in bed and telling everyone that I have a large penis, boasting about the image of something I have created as a child, and now, that I see myself at such an age, realising that for my body size, if I will grow a few more inches, it will look very small. That’s how I trick them (the women, that is). They look at it and they look at me with it and then think to themselves, „that’s it? it looks harmless.” , „...that’s what’s waiting for me? Oh, well...” and such, and such (you know how women think). But then, it happens; it enters your fucking stomach and you can’t utter a simple moan; you look at yourself in my eyes and see the image of a surprised monkey wanting more banana, more banana! „More, More, More! Oh, yes, please, ...” Ok actually, she’s not saying those words. No, she’s not. She can’t. She’s still imagining herself in my eyes, imagining if she should have me go slower or if she should have me go full throttle every time I decide to tease her by slowing the ticking of the clock down to the complex matter of a simple motion repeating itself, every time feeling different than the one before. But she’s not even looking me in the eyes. I never let go of her sight, i never let her face escpae my view. It’s as if I can’t turn myself on if I don’t search  for her gaze, search for her look when she realizes that there’s more, that there can’t be more, that if I keep on going she will have to... No...actually, none of this is happening. None of this even happened once. None, except each time I close my eyes and see them riding my cock, see them squishing down their lips round around the skin of my penis, licking their lips after each turn as if wanting for me to smash their little pretty head between my palm and kiss them with all my might- something, which I always do after a blow-job because I feel like it’s a way to show my respect to the lady for having her perform such a feat. And, I mean, I love kissing, and I don’t mind my cock, so I don’t see why I should have any problems with maybe tasting some of my cum on her lips That clock though, that sound ticking in and out of my ears, going higher and higher in focus each time I decide to let it rape my skin to goosebumps; you think you have something watching you every time you sweat so little you can feel the little droplets dying seconds after they haven’t even been created yet. You don’t look, you don’t breath- actually, you breath a little bit, and when you realise it, you start breathing harder and harder, going deeper and deeper into yourself, feeling her warm paint tick on the palm of your hands, hearing her pur and hearing her smile... What if I told them they would have nothing to live for rather than the existence of their breath puryfying the air around the ones that tend to waste iton booze and girls, nott he type of booze you’d like though and not the type of women one of his type should behanging with. That’s the problem one tends to spin around in. The sex life of a bee when it’s trying to work, is kind of tricky. You on’t see a lt of bees going around fucking, do you? And you don’t see them giving a shit thinking that you might believe that each one of them is a virgin. Well, the same should be applied to us, if you’d rather have the doctor tell  you that you have only three more days till you reach zero? What doyou mean doc, till I reach zero? You see, the body congests intself down to it’s natural self and what remains are the excess, the things you took on you that just clogg your blood flow. And when all thatresidue is gone for, that’s when you can start counting again. ...doc, you’renot making any sense. I thought I came to a real world doctor, not to a guru. Is the operation going to bedeadly?? I don’t understand, you’re talking in code. The only reason you don’t understand me my friend is because you are trying to understand your body through a language you speak, but it, it doesn’t. It’s as if I were to say hello to a frog and be upset why it’s not replying back the same way. Or why it’s not frowning or at least showing some reaction to my language. Your body will talk through you first by filtering itself through your actions. If you tend to see movements, words, habbits of yours take a different turn during a time of the day, that’s when you have to take into account the fact that you might be making a mistake, or something that is not on par with your true self. If you are not following me, here, look inthis mirror (the doctor makes a mirror appear as if he had pulled it out of thin air). ...!what the. Look at yourself, you see how you’ve reacted to something of magic, something from a land stranger to you. Look at your face. At your visage. It doesn’t show fear, it doesn’t show anger, it show’s disbelief filtered through the air of a mature child pretending to like the game he’s playing...7 Nothing to be said and nothign to be smoked, I feel that there’s quite a connection between me and the time I have tto wait between I receive the next cigarette, or until I actually get my ass up and buy myself a pack. Don’t worry, I smoke that motherfucker in a day, let’s say 2 tops. Don’t imagine I consume my throat for the entire package- what do you think of me, a fool! Let other’s die their interior with the cancer of my money. You think I’d insert all that greed into my system. Nahha, nahaa, I would only let myself be infested my all that scratching in case of a painting happening or a night out with the humans. Expect those times, you’ll never see me with a cigarette in my hand or with a lie on my lips, The song won’t have tiself played on the rhythm of one’s living. It will take itself free of any boundries, free of any wondering heads laying at the top of their sincerity; no one wants a fully honest person. Anything taken to extreme seems to flower in such a way as to kill everything else that tries to co-life alongside it. What is it I will be holding onto this page if not the amplitude of information one seeks to enrage himself with through the simple task of laying one’s self on top of such water that one will not be doomed to his enternal by having to look himself in the eyes. What will you desire at the end of the day, when you will be looking down deep into the abyss of your own darkness and each time you decide to slepp, each time you decide to go back home, back to your own space, you ignore it by telling him your past (thinking of old memories, melancholing) Skull my skin and ash my fingers, jazz my eyes and tan my livers, I want a single drop of l’eau, I want to think like the bourgeois... Have me by the single tear, have I by my single smear - of time, for getting it confused which way it should stop and which way it should count, which way it should skip and which way it should not; letting down the eyes of the universe that pry into our being. But our process is slow. Curiousity has it’s ends. The one’s we owe everything to may not be pleased of what we show them. How we entertain them still keeps them a bit present, wanting for more, thinking that it might, it might just happen any moment, any given time, that humanity will blossom, that humans will shed skin over their past lives and consider it bones, that nature will once again grow and look upon civilization as not a misguided dream but as a late-bloomer. You hold teh deck in mechanics grip and prepare yourself for swing cutting the deck. When the left hand reache to pinch the upper left corner of the packet, at the same time, your right inder fingers pulls back onto the top of the deck and your left hand comes forward with the top card. Requires single practice of the bluff before going on to retaining one card. The good don't care about money, the bad don't care about love;but it's money that rules this reality and because of us, the ugly rule the world. You tell someone to act out their crazyness in front ofa camera. Now, you don’t want them to know that someone else will be seeing this afterwards, but you do want them to know that, at least for a bit. So at the beginning you zctually do film them for like 12 minutes. Hahah, shit, if anyone stays that much, they sure don’t give a fuck about the camera. Or you might have found a true talent. You never know, you never know. Actually, you do find out after you make first contact with the being. So, back to our topic, after you finish filming them, you bring in the camera this painting of a picture. And you make them think that the picture is a real camera (of course you have installed a small camera inside of the painting. Duh...). or, to make it moer natural, you draw a camera on the wall with a piece of chalk. And give the wall a metaphorical feeling, as if the entire room is actually a camera (you do have installed in each corner a small camera invisible to the spectators eye). Now, you see, the thing is that you did tell them that they were going to be filmed. You just didn’t say for how long. So when they’re doing the second segment, you tell them you will just record their audio, but leave the room so you can let them their privacy (so they can basically go apeshit self). To finish of the „experiment” , you tell them that were being filmed the entire time, and now, once more, have them continue their manifestation, knowing that they were filmed the previous time and knowing that they are still being filmed. Yes, you basically make a mockery of their state. Confusion is indeed to happen. It is the first feeling you come in contact with on your way to magic. All you have to do is just keep walking. Not every feeling or thought that goes through your head has to be felt, has to be given attention. Don’t understand me wrong, you don’t diss it off like it’s not even part of you. You look at it, you hear it out and then you just smile and move on. You don’t speak the same language (english for example), so there’s no point in talking. A simple gesture that expresses your love for yourself is enough. Do not disrespect anything you think, imagine or feel. Give it the same importance you give your positive thoughts, and feelings. To that image of your mom cooking at the stove, to that memory you have from fifth grade with your best friend, to the feeling on your lips of her lips, to what you imagine when you hold a knife in your hand, to what you dreamt of when you slept nexxt to your sister, to what you did when your parents left, everything is part of you and is a child of your actions and decisions. Everything is you. I’m not saying you shouldn’t hate yourself. If you truly felt like that. (You are not here to see, my friend. Through these eyes, only i know what happens at the end of my fingertips. People look at the process of writing as if its merely thinking then putting down words which you ve thought. Or feeling and just letting yourself go on the keyboard.  Its mostly the set of rules you limit yourself with. When i write for you guys, i always try something more experimental. The idea with the sentences is that each is being written to the tempo of a song. Each 4 beat segment corresponds to one of the sentences. If you would lookl through my eyes and feel what im feeling, you would understand how each word is/(or at least i tried to make it) connected to one sound of the song (a kick, a snare, etc.). Shit, I sound so bad when I;m high. Really not in par with reality talking when under the clouds. More of a metaphorical existence rater than merely telling you what i want to tell you. Yeahyeahyteah, trying to make out of everything an experience. Took it from my dad who pulls out of nothing, out of anything, a philosophy. I love that fucker. I will only think of the ticking clock every time I look down at my hands and don’t recorgnize the first person game I am playing. Look at my damn feet, you fucking nuthead. This infomercial will ocntain vilent language and excesive imagery. Yif you decide to watch its because of your own consempt. Don’t think that if I will speak up my voice and won’t like the sound of the tone that echose back into my heaad. I will have my girfriends hold my cock as if its my hand. Don’t think that if my laptop looks like shit I have a bad life. Oww, how i always have a single connection to life, to , the only one reeking down voice of ,.sllldfncoojsalllsd;;kflflflsosoppsoojcklklls;lkcppoppsoopjcncks;cpskjmpcsmpss C”£$%^mvvkkcmcncncnccmccl;ssssskskkkkkkkkkooooooooocsapooacpopasmcmcm I just realised that there is no hashtag on my keyboard. Fucking englishmen. I will have my leaf blow up the wind through the forest will be a straight road you have to follow look up and don’t look sideways to the prying ghosts wonering about through your head they qre purely the margin of your memories if you pay attention to them you give them more energy, more information, tmore attention- think of him as a child. A child doesn’t know he is doing good or bad. He sees that you like him so he keeps playing with you. The idea, you see, with things of extraterestrial being you have to keep in mind that they also might have feelings at a different level of understanding than that of yours- at least, ...  I love what doesn’t love me, for reasons of pure challenge, i creeck in the ubnormal for I shine nothing darker, my my my oh my look brave, the college kid is running, back to be a slave, inside the lonesome shadow of his former self, he juggles through the jungle in search for more bananas. The bottle when it’s shiny looks brighter than his eyes, so he steals their gleam with nothing but disguise, he lacks the shed of violance to banish those that creek, he lets them take advantage to have them at his fit. Ow, done I am of words that let me numb, not for the lack of them but more for where a future stands allow in cream of nothing jambly jumbly joe had a little fairy dust that wanted to know how it is to have people wish her goodnight and have children see her off into the shadows. She wanted not to test the few, but delight them with the wonder of magic, as if to let them know that they can, if they want, join in at any time, but as the true tells tell since when we were older, equivelent exchange has none but fallen shorter, in these days you look clearer to heavens doors at night, in dreams you filter clearer by hands you don’t think right, belong to those that witness their life at others feet, to let them joyce in life and wonder of defeat, let them be strong and let their muscles dry short of the danger invoked by the little people who have a small dick and think they mom is the toughest because she got them laid when he was 15 and I was still a  virgin and for some reason he thought it would be funny to fuck me as well for he had already ond with once already so we go to the bathroom and there he sits in front of me wondering of my eyes, wondering of my visage, combing my hair with his gentle fingers, fingers I would later wonder how can they vanish and reappear so fast in so many part of my body. I stand in front of him as if he was painting me. I slowly turned my focus towards his eyes, for he had shifted his attention to his fingers. You would’ve been damned if he wasn’t creating me in front of his eyes. Slowly I could sense myself be undressed by him, without having him take advantage of his hands. Not only would I have him stop and wonder of everything. Not only would I have him let his hands wonder all within my mouth and under my pits and lashes. I did not feel it to be weird- I thought, but the mere thought didn’t seem to motivate me enough to move him. He said he was sculpting me? What? Sculpting you? What was he dressed as Michelangelo? No one would think that. C’mon, you are indeed wonderful. He said he wanted to know each part of me before he proceeded. Wanted to imaginate me. Isn’t that what all men do when they take an instant look at you? Imagine you? You ever met a man who didn’t want you to be this one more or that way less? How about a dog that didn’t always clawed your fucking car? You think I drive these fucking pants all the way to my mistress's apartment only to find my wife sleeping with her as well. I did what any other man would have done in that situation, a man like myself, having been under the great influence of sobriety, I took my pants of and fucked my wife directly in the mouth. That bitch always loved blowjobs, and this situation,- I knew it would have turned her on. And oww fuck me it did. Up until this very day i still don’t remember receiving a this way more or that way less-er blow job. Dude, her lips, as if linked to anything they touch. Eyes of spider web precision tangled in between your very first thought and all the others left. She, a small arousel at the tip of your head, game over. They think I’m a fool. A fool dressed up in white collars, having nothing around his neck but the very shoes drawing pain on his feet every time the character of this naration decides to take a running through his dreams. And they think if i don’t eat or sleep,  I will die. Fools, i tell them. Fools. To have a single drop of water on my tongue is enough to shelter my stomach for an entire hour. You look at yourself and all you think is fat, fat, fat. Holy fucking shit you human, if you think you’re fat, look around the globe, travel, see what others say when you utter such nonsense. Of course you’re fat. Of course you’re thin. Of yourse you’re dumb and of course you’re a kid. There’s nothing wrong with being this or that, with doing this or that, with thinking this or that. There is nothing wrong with anything. Nothing with the spider, nothing with the rock, nothing with the building (except having sacrificed nature for the hope of humans- which is still not bad). There is nothing with nothing, and everything with everything. It is you who decides how something is, and if you let others decide for you, then don’t go about complaining when something happens which isn’t on par with your way of being. Of course it ain’t on fucking par with your way since you haven’t been doing your way. Look at yourself, you prick. Mighty and brighty, a donkey with a monkey, a prime and a late-bloomer, everything and nothing, all and one having crowded themselves with the first train for a hint of entertainment and briliance. Briliance. Hmmm, what a word. I think nothing of it until I let my fingers type whatever it is my mind shall be thinking in this moment of the word. If you ask me tomorrow what I thnk of it, most likely, I will say something of the same lines, but I wouldn’t principle it instanly. Very few things are so important you should make of them principles. Like, for example, take me: as long as I haave, I give. That is a principle I shadow in the mirror of my eyes, a single longing for hope when nothing darkens the future better than a shallow stack of money and the impression that getting laid is everything you want. It is, for that moment. But if you take the moment and you start sowing it in your skin, of course it’s gonna start pumping blood through your veins. Chose the materials you let evolve on your mask. Mask. The mask. Loved that movey as a kid. Now i understand why. The man with a thousand faces goes out to take a piss, only to have his urine mark the existence of another self. Reeking of urine? Doesn’t matter. Just because something smells bad doesn’t mean it’ll stay that way forever. Actually, I’ve found the people that stink of their smell to have something of magic escaping out of their body. As if they weren’t ...as if they were... as if joy had a... to think ... lonely at the top of the stairs sits a man with a newspaper in his hands that looks to be burned. I say looks because the old man isn’t anywhere in sight, so I might be mistaken of the state of the newspaper. Either way, we know that  he’s old, that he knows how to read, that he can still see (he doesn’t seem to be having any glassses as well) and also that he’s carrying a newspaper. I can clearly see that it’s written in Greek. Don’t ask me how I’ve come to the conclusion, but it’s something of immediate certainty. What is the old man sitting on though? – that, we don’t know, but wat we do know is that if he is indeed sitting as we say he is, then that means that...I long for the moment when I know you’ll be reading this and then everything will start blossoming, everything will catch meaning, at least, for a while, until I get bored and move on to the next foundation. Yeah, that’s right, use metaphors for explaining what you’re going through? Don’t you think you’ll be hurting people’s brain by formulating your sentences into a more difficult to understand manner? Into a more abstract way? Into a more borderline ok insanity? I mean, isn’t that what communication is? Repressed insanity, knowing that while you’re talking, the other person has no idea what you do at night, what you write, what you imagine, how you cut yourself or burn yourself in small doses, the other person keeps on blabbering and blabbering and so do you, blabber blabber on with her, but every time you remember to disconnect for a second and look into yourself, you know- she doesn’t. And it’s that knowing of your true self that you can put on this mascarade with such a smile. If it comes down to throwing swords down, you can put that son of a bitch on one fucking leg. He might be taller, he might be smaller, he might be tougher- but fuck me if I won’t give it my best to strangle this son of a bitch verbally before fucking his mouth with my fist and sexually harassing him while punching his soft face. The perfect mixture for one to blow up sentimentally and phisically, to make him burn and burn, then using word of mouth you indirectly start telling him truths about the world, about himself, about what is happening. You start existing on more levels than the basic one: The level on which the two of us are fighting. That is LEVEL 1 offense for a Rogue like yourself. If you start talking nonsense, sense, or just merely socialising with him , this will trigger responsese, of course, from the other animal, but it is you who keeps talking as if you cannot hear him yelling and cannot see him wanting to kill you with all his will and power. That’s when you produce your first Ace. A playing card. Something so inoffensive, so small, and yet, so peculiar in a fight that it makes the other one stop and wonder, „What the fuck just happened?” `Are you a magician of some sorts?` he asks me. They might not say this while they’re trying to beat the living shit out of you, thing which they seem to be doing quite well, but they will say it probably after you break their hand or bite their fucking ear off. Hey, a dog fight is a dog fight. We’re not swordsman. I think that’s what people think they’ll resort to when they will have to fight. That is, if they ever stir a fire anough to have it crackle back at you. I suppose we’ll all see about such scenarios, but, in the end, I was trying to fucking tell you about how I was studying... so they say, I think too much. doesn’t feel like the time to write poems, so I won’t. feels more like the time of romanian and greek, land and earth, solid and business, shit and piss, everything I can smell and everything I can touch with the- at least – tip of my fingers. I say goodbye now, but only to come back stronger than before, a single shroud of doubt and now i can feel more, the little of the sunshine that passed by me last time, I had it in my pants this motning when I thought of- noh- you know what I fuckin’ hate? you know, I like to think sometimes that this world has something more to offer to use than just merely what we can touc with our eyes. I mean, try and think about your eyes from a third point of view. I can honestly say that the firrst thing my mom told me was not to use- excuse, me not to stretch my eyes, put effort on them, not use them in the dark, take as much care as possible with them, god forbid! not do any harm to them by using them...right... I had to take a break from all the writing and the magic and the filming. I suppose the first hour thingy took a bit out of me. Also feeling a tad sick from the cereals with milk I had, but I’m sure it’s mostly from the mixture of jealousy and happiness that I am feeling. lady who intervied me asked if I’d ever had a gallery. she smirked at my negative answer. I felt... small; maybe my worth wasn’t as valuable as I thought. I went ahead the following months and worked on material for a gallery. after two meetings with gallery owners, their reaction to what I was telling them confirmed by initial opinion about what I was developing; so I decided to decline their offer of supporting me with space, marketing and press. „go big, or go home”, „be the best or be no one at all”. fame doesn’t interest me at this point in my art. putting together a gallery for the purpose of proving to others what I am capable of would only take so much out of the little time I have left on this planet. in Romania, even if you’re good, you get swallowed by those who have money. good art here gets stolen. the press is as much interested by revolutionary ideas as thy are about jerking off their best friend. nonetheless, all my art is meant for the English; all my words, wisdom, blood and flesh. you’re going to give me a scolarship. these past few months I’ve traveled again in search of people’s fire, only to find indifference and kindness. it seems as if only the beggars have the perseverence young artists should posses. if I could, I would drop down on my knees and beg you to do it. but why? why would I be worth of your sacrifice? I won’t prove it with my portfolio, I might not prove it with the interview and it’s not because I don’t want to stolen, gifted, been robbed, threatened, owed and payed, lived rich,invested, lived poor, loved and fucked, worked, played, hired, organised people from around the world, from diplomats to junkies, schizophrenics to geniuses, traveled like a nomad, richman, gypsie and magician, I was 20 when I turned 16, 30 when I turned 18 and now I’m 21 as I turn 21. my birthday’s today, but I was born a long time before any of this. So I wrote the damn thing, checked out, called all of my friends and told them I was going to drop out of High School. The inevitable question popped out (as all babies do), “What was I going to do?”. I didn’t know, but I felt I was on the right track. Months later, I made a CV and sent it to 92 organizations, acquiring if I could make my EVS (European Voluntary Service) in their city. Of course, I sent all these e-mails one month after the appointed deadline, but that didn’t seem to bother me; which really disturbed my mother (who couldn’t stop crying, of course). Out of all those organizations, ONE- let me say that again, ONE SINGLE organization replied to my e-mail, letting me know that they had looked over my resume and that they wanted to offer me a spot on their Service Civique (French Voluntary Service) instead. My eyes gleamed of doubt and curiosity. They had a free place in four different organizations, two of which dealt with mentally challenged children and the other with helping homeless people. One, in particular, struck my attention: “1 place in the structure LES PORTES DU SOLEIL located in Hellemmes, next to Lille : there, the volunteer brings help to homeless men (you've to be mentally and physically strong because it's a hard place...) .” That last phrase sold it for me. If it’s hard, it means it’s challenging; and if it’s challenging, well, that means it’ll be fun. I had never thought about painting, and especially about making abstract art. It was not a decision I took, or thought of, to be more precise, but more something that exploded out of my body. I would be writing something, when in the middle of a sentence my hand would decide by itself to start dancing (it was a weird few days). I soon started drawing with knives, painting with cigarettes, sticking and stitching, drilling and cutting, cooking up and frying down an empire of colours, communicating with one another for the sole purpose of, well, nothing. It took me a while getting used to not expecting an outcome, not trying to see where everything is going. I would just have to trust the feeling, trust the music, trust nothing and rush head forward, chin up, towards the darkness at the end of the tunnel. There was no one to advise me on how to proceed with things and I believe that was my greatest luck. I don’t believe Automatic Drawing is something one can be taught. It is unique for each individual as it connects to one’s roots, one’s soul, if you might say. Later, I looked into and read materials from Stan Brakhage (a.k.a. Mr. Barcage), Louis Felipe Noel, studied Mr. Salvador’s narcissism and stole a few of his ideas (such as drawing on a receipt instead of paying), mesmerized at Adolf Wölfli’s insanity, hating and admiring each of them. My automatism relies in the phrase “equivalent, exchange”, something I learned from an anime show that taught Alchemy. How much I act on instinct and how much of what is around me I end up sacrificing, eventually decides how great the outcome of the piece will be, as well as how much I learn from it. My dad started building a traditional hotel in a small village in Transylvania, back in 2007. So, since he could use all the help he could get, every holiday from there on he would take my brother and I from the city and have us work with and for him. It is there that I developed a habit of working hard and got used to being constantly under pressure. We would wake up at 7am and until 10pm my dad would give us work to do. His phrase, up until this day as well, is still “There’s always something to do around here.” We successfully opened business in 2009. I waited tables for 3 years, washed hundreds and hundreds of dishes every Christmas, Easter, Summer Holiday and Winter, painted and repainted the house to, and I quote, “just make it shinny”, repaired and built what needed and didn’t need fixing, managed international customers and entertained people with magic, helped design and put together wedding halls along with my brother and the small staff we had, took care of all the photographing, as well as made sure my mom worked as little as possible. To be honest, there were many times along the 7 years I went there, when I detested, despised and HATED it, but looking back, it is not a day that I am not grateful of all the experience I gained through all those holidays of non-stop work. It has shaped me into the artist and person that I am today. So, what is it I want to accomplish by the end of my course? Being able to stay awake for 48 hours and create a film, paint the music for it, mix the audio, write a book, make a website and create as much magic as possible (#ofquality). My first attempt at doing something like this was two years ago, through “The X project”, which consisted of me sitting on a chair for 24 hours and coming up with as many new sleight of hand techniques as I could. I switched between two cameras in order to record the entire thing, had a laptop for writing thoughts and feeling, and a notebook for ideas. The project turned out to be a success, so I gave away all the ideas for free (as I usually do) in the form of a website, book and video. I’ve always been a fan of insane projects, my insanity residing in being able to produce quality in the shortest time possible. So, one year later, I kind of did the same thing with “Z Project”, which in the end turned out to be a sort of Virtual DvD portfolio, through which one travels and discovers my projects and art. Wait, wait, wait, I was talking about- yes, the question was- so, what is it I want to accomplish by the end of my course? Be able to help people and help people help themselves through my art and persona. Though, I think the right question should be, what do I plan on doing during my years of study, which is, put the bases for a new type of seeing (“Manipulating Vision and Point of View”, which I have finally! finished developing a few days ago), create a new type of social media (“IHAVENOIDEA”), bring together artists from around the world into a collective (The Pirate Crew I was talking about earlier) and finally, and hopefully, publish a treaty on curing mental illness (still a long shot, but I expect to evolve a lot under the care and pressure of your wings). This is not a statement letter. This is not a monologue. This is medicine for my burning stomach; therapy for my numbed in mind. I don’t want to impress, nor do I want to take advantage of your eyesight for the soul purpose of movement. I am here on my own accord, by my own terms and have arrived here through my own dance on chaos. My dad always told me, ‘Get to know a person before judging their work, before judging their actions.’, so, on that accord, I shall start with the middle. Oh, excuse me, where are my manners? Would you like some tea? (just grazing your eyes over the words does not act as an answer). Sorry, my accent is weird. I was asking if you’d like some tea? Oh, ok, then just let me grab a cup first. This will take a- I dropped out of high school before finishing my last year. One day, on a whim, I decided to escape for a week from everyone and everything, go to a family hotel outside the city for a week and just write a book. So I arrived at the complex, checked in, dropped my luggage, rolled myself a cigarette and immediately sat on the toilet. For some reason, I had always wanted to smoke a cigarette while doing my business. Anyway, I proceed with my guilty pleasure when I hear a thought, at first weak, but then louder and louder as my heartbeat pounds harder and harder,  and as soon as I said it, I knew I wasn’t joking: I was going to drop out of High School. well, you finish one thing and then you’re on to the other. it’s funny how the ecstasy of a new thing vanishes like smoke in the cold air. one second you’re enthusiastic, you’re absorbing it all in, then the question pops in your head, if the fatigue hasn’t kicked in yet, ‘Ok. So, what’s next?’ and by the time you know you’re already working on the next thing. Already planning it. The peak went as soon as it came and if you work in the magic industry, your flame lasts as much as a lit match, so what you need to do is either keep lighting matches or bring out a torch. but, the thing with torches is, even though their flame is bigger and more people notice it, it is forgotten faster. ‘oww, that’s quite the torch man.’ and that’s it, for a couple of weeks. But, if you keep lighting matches, people start wondering, ‘What’s with this guy? Is he mad or something? Every time I look at him he lights a new match.’ but here I am rambling about stuff you don’t care, stuff even I don’t care about, to be frank (who is this Frank guy and why does everyone want to be him at one point?), at 3 am on a Saturday morning, waiting to jump the 6 am train to S. Man, what love does to people. what it does to me! I’m quite amazed how far I can stretch for someone else, but for me I can barely convince myself to get the remote control. what is the point of this writing, anyway? meaningless tapping of the keys, with a head full of jazz and a stomach full of bread with better. life can’t get any butter than this. 3 minutes. 3 minutes have passed since I started torturing myself. how far into my mind can I get by 5 am? insanity? lucidity? nothingness? well, it’s one way to reach nirvana, I suppose. a green cup. a couple of handkerchiefs for my jogging nose. flies coming from all sides. phone. ignored tv in the background. lights on for no reason. room empty. jazz. Jazzing with the flying shit-lovers A melancholic sadness flows in the air at the end of a party. My eyes weight about a couple of pounds now. They're like store markets: one second their closed, next they're open again. I should really lay down my head on a soft, silent pillow (they still smell like early memories and bad decisions- mine, of course). I have the tendency to fuck myself up from now and then. Mass knowledge, losing time theory - and he has arrived. My 5 minutes are up. While the sound of fucking fills the silent air of the background, the music provides a smooth atmosphere for the shy couple and the camera provides a show for the hardcore couple. The cameraman moves like the phantom at the opera, swinging from one room to the other, tears falling down his cheek from the cigarette smoke filling the air. It's the good long night, the camera thinks. It's a short night, the cameraman replies. No shots, if all are amateur. went to Amsterdam so I could take and buy trefels for the Onze project (where I don’t sleep for days on) . call it insane. call it addicted. I call that devotion. started talking with a Sirian guy on the bus after crashing for 2 hours on the bus. pulling that all-nighter before traveling was surely a great idea. so, this guy. turned out to be a business man in tech working in Austria. told me about a new version of the internet- apparently we are using the 2.0 version and this one will be 3.0. whatever.- that will be launched in 2020. I wonder what people were doing in the year 420. yes. semantic technology. started talking with him and convinced him to tag along with me. took treffels around 9 and started talking to him about the brain, about changing his pov on life and living. liked him because we were really similar in some ways. started tripping along the way and ended up at his hostel talking about business and living and showing him magic. his faced seemed to morph in that of a troll, thought he was hitting at me at one point (it was back in my brain though. the overthinking caught a seed then). hmm, the Spanish princess from Alexandria. Egyptian. beautiful, wonderful and such a character. the Flying Pig. how much can one drive into insanity? how deep can one submerse in the reality and the illusion that is one’s self. just how stupid, how great, how much of an atrocity can one blurt out if one does not stop the river of his thought? and what will happen when the train finishes? onesdakfbjsaklva if one makes no use of his brain what does…to think that ,..asknasklc lsk fsfkn you reach one point in which you either start typing the letters without any salvvas;f asisvaknasnklvasos rhythm or meaning or you blurt out animal in the morning sun while chalkboard stale thinking that the words come in such a way because they want to and you consider it to be art. for what is not art in these days? take a shit in a museum and put a light on it and you have a gathering of people wondering at the smelly shit, appreciating even the aroma of the taste they have in their mouth, thinking, ‘Yeah, yeah. Contemporary art. Something like this so ballsy, definitely has to say something. You wouldn’t just put a shit in a museum for no reason. What did the artist see when he did this piece?’ His furry fucking legs, that’s what he saw. and a pair of unwashed underwear which he was too lazy to take off after 3 nights. Things like this happen to the best of us.  shall we begin the time-travel, my dear? smoky night. the psy-electric lights beamed through the tents. the music was good. the atmosphere was different. it was as if it was meant for you to take it that particular day, that particular tab, not the orange one. we played it on randomness. let the universe decide, right? I guess we trusted it and it paid off. why does my tone sound so serious? trying too hard to put you in the atmosphere of that day I suppose. the happiest day of that year, I can easily say that. the acid started hitting you just about before we reached the main stage. you stopped at a green purple Buddha and started laughing. you were confused why we weren’t seeing how funny it was. Igna was so cool with it. Rata kept on asking what were you seeing, how were you feeling, tell me!, tell me! Igna convinced her- or probably me, I don’t know- to let you enjoy it and ask you all the questions she wants the next day. she was quiet for a while (with the questions I mean), but from now and then she kept whining that she wanted to know what you were seeing. compare it with her trip. don’t know if you remember, they stayed with us for 2 hours but then they left to see the circus and whatever. they got back to the tent around 2-3 in the morning. we arrived at 4-5. I’m getting ahead of myself. so, where were we? but getting back to you,). you kissed me for the first time and it felt just like the first few months when we fell in love. like we had no past. no arguments. no shit to interfere between us. just our love. I melted into your lips. you can’t blame me for taking advantage of this and kissing you as much as possible for the next hour. you seemed to enjoy it as well, so no harm done haha. you asked me what I thought was most important in life. I said you should tell me that. in the end, you had to decide between love and money. now I know how much you like money darling, but I didn’t want you to have that on your mind during your spiritual experience. money. money. money money money money money money money. say it 10 times and it sounds weird. say it 50 times and it loses meaning. money. love. love. love, love, love. say it as many times as you want and you’ll just sink deeper into it. you agreed with me. ‘love is more important” and then I kissed you again. I can still feel the softness of your lips when I think about it. I melted into them. you always knew how to kiss sensually, but it really depended if you wanted or not (depending on which personality you were- a part of you really fucking hates kissing. like REALLY fucking hates kissing. it usually occurs when you go through something that pisses you off, or when extreme boredom lingers on your body). we kissed, and then you were back at the question. you still didn’t know if you chose the right answer. I remember I started reasoning with you logically, and every time you agreed with me. we talked about your family, about your future, about your feelings, but money kept popping up in every conversation. I guess you’re really destined to make a lot of money. you got a mind for it. and the personality- personalities, I mean (:*). third cigarette in. haven’t smoked this much in a while. didn’t have the money to buy any Tabaco or fags. barely ate anything today.  I painted for the first time on the street today (busking for money, you know). 6 hours in the park, made 2 paintings. had 3 with me in case anyone wanted to buy one. ended up giving 2 as a gift (one to the first person that gave me money and one to the last person). anyway, we arrive in the tent. we started making out. you helped me take of your clothes. you were still in your panties and underwear. I took of my shirt. we were making out when all of a sudden the urge of dancing once again flowered inside you. you went out of the tent and started running towards the main stage. I ran after you and grabbed you from behind. I reasoned with you that it was late, cold and the main stage was really far away. you agreed and then we went back into the tent. we started making out again, you helped me get your bra off (you know I was never good at that), I took off my pants and underwear. we were naked finally. I felt so happy then and there with you. it felt so warm inside the tent even though the temperature was lazy cold. your skin as I kissed it. I didn’t rush it. it’s not my style to get undressed and fuck instantly. that’s what you do in the bathroom in the back of a club. I kissed your lips. your neck. I held your hands tight as I kept going down. but when I’d reach your pussy, you’d close your legs and block me off. I told you to trust me. you said you did. I kissed you again. you relaxed and laid down on the cover. I went down once again but your defense mechanism was still functioning. again. I guess the shock you were feeling and the things you were thinking weren’t letting the information get through to you. you were afraid of me. I told you the story once again. you didn’t seem to understand. I gave up trying to explain to you. I was tired. the air started to get cold and that’s when I started to become afraid. I thought the event had damaged you somehow. you didn’t want to get dressed, you didn’t want to let me touch you, speak to you, or anything. you just stood there and did nothing. said nothing. you said you were cold, but you didn’t want to get dressed. I tried to make you sleep. I told you that if you’d go to sleep and wake up, everything would be better. I tried to force you to go to sleep, I apologize for that, but I just didn’t know what to do. at this point, I didn’t know what to think anymore. I woke up Igna and Renata and told them to try and talk with you. you didn’t want to talk with them either. I went out and smoke a cigarette. fuck. as good as the nigh felt up until then, all that energy, in one second turned to fear, it was too much for me. I was so scared you wouldn’t be the same the next morning. that I had done something so horrible to you that my fingers on your skin felt unbearable. I went back in the ten and you were lying in the same position as when I left. you had a shirt on your back at this point, so I guess that was better. though, you took it off when the guys left. I told you I was gonna go to bed. you didn’t say anything. I prepared the bed and let you know that in case you wanted to get dressed and sleep, there were clothes si plapuma behind you. I sat there, under the cover, and I waited until I heard you dress up and go to sleep. people dragging their luggage behind them, dragging their bodies, dragging their faces. dragging, dragging, drag. aaaaghhh, it’s such a drag watching these people live. but then again, maybe I’m judging to fast. I always get MnMs, but never finish them. so much god damn sugar. great, now I’m talking about sweets. is there literally nothing to do in this PLACE? HELLLOOO! ANYOOONE! three people look my way but none of them seem to react. what’s happening to this world? where’s all the communicating people?! CO-MU-NI-CA-wait, I forgot an “m”. CO-MMU-NI-CATING. if a person yells inside an airport and no one reacts, is he making any sound? I will get back to my MnM’s now. ...how did I forget my laptop? where is my phone? fucking phone got lost. who thought placing the phone in my legging’s pocket wouldn’t be a good idea? maybe the ecstasy got me a little bit too excited. always end up dancing SO MUCH. SOOO MUUUUUUUUUU- actually not that much. I battle against the music a lot. the dj the puppeteer, the music the puppet and I, bored to the god damn bones in this happiness forsaken place. I want a cigarette. and I want another MnM. PEOPLE!! PEOPLE COMING!! VVVVVUUUSSSHIUUUUU. where from? what country? Amsterdam? Bankock? New York?! neah, I don’t really lik- PEOPLE! a stream of people flood the open space of the airport and life comes back to the place. ‘O.O...O.O...0.0...freeeench. ohhh, ohhh, oh!, I can feel my legs shriek from the orgasm my eyes are having. the voice. your voice. your voice. oh, YOUR voice. look at me, look at me, look at you! ow, where am I? ok, not good. have to start being serious a little. somebody already called the security. just act like one of the monkeys. good thing I have my clothes on for moments like this. well, that blow-job was unexpected. maybe not as unexpected as the MnM I gave her after she pleasured me. who wants cum taste in their mouth, let’s be hon- oww, lord. you’re beautiful. ‘Yes, brotha. I said you’re one handsome mothafucka. Look at you, gawd. Gawd. that beard, not too trimmed, not too long. almost blond, almost white. your eyes?, greeeeeeeeeeeeen border- hey!, hey! c’mon man, where are you going? I was just complimenting you. no need for a blow-job or anything, I already got one.’ oww, you wanna play? eh, eh, you wanna play. let’s play! I dance around you and you act as if you’re scared and want to run away from me. 123let’sgo! HAHAHAHA, you play so well. SO WELL. RUN MONKEY, RUN! you dropped your banana, monkey. HAHAHA, you dropped  your bana- no, seriously, man. you dropped your briefcase. wait, ... here