Insemnaturi dintr-un jurnal pe care nu l-as fi putut tine niciodata:
Signs of a fallen stone, a crack in the smile of the
Statue of Liberty
Thoughts are biting like steel shards reddening the hands of the working
Class
A bronze golem lets everybody know there is no time left
In the hour-glass. This is my consciousness, dear audience, absurd as the darwinian theater
Duelists and puppeteers, napoleons and characters from other french novelists
Like D’Artagnan and his loved musketeers, a word that rhymes with the great water
Muskadoon. That’s in India. And going to India is no sin, at least once in a lifetime. A great trip.
Maybe I’m going there soon. Maybe India is ironically the heaven for all infidels bound to reincarnate in
Cows.
And sheep.
And cats. Big cats. Enormous, gigantic, eyes bulging and claws scratching and all. Working class cats that end up in a menu at the restaurant, or yawning at the back-door of a restaurant. Alley cats. Aristocats. Sheepish sleepless cats.
Sleep. Why isn’t there sleep for sale at the outer rim of one’s life? Of one’s night? Only the sigh of the comet of Haley. Now here’s some free association for you, want some more Bailey’s?
Sippin’ it softly, do you mind me enjoying my drink? C’mon, mighty Creature, I am just exploiting a flaw in design over and over and over again. Here, for you, and then God sayeth “let there be a structure we call the benzodiazepinic receptor”. And voila! there was a benzodiazepinic receptor. Who could’ve guessed it’s just where booze likes to cuddle once it gets into my darwinian theater? Yep. Booze and Haley’s comet. Hangin’ out in my brain. My brain made in India, limited series with leather and alloy wheels. And free mileage. And free oil change for life.
I am the butter. I am the bread.
I am the knife.
G.
andreanum & co 