(no subject)
I enter into day three of my self-imposed solitude with a vivaciousness of will that surprises even me. Although the hours can still be counted without much trouble, I’ve already observed a rapidly growing detachment from my friends and peers. I am aware that I’m writing this in an absurd style, but I don’t seem to be able to discard it, as this is the style in which I have been reading for the better part of these days. Currently, I am reading Thomas Moore’s “Utopia”, accompanied and livened with what used to be a fresh bottle of whiskey. Now it stares at me from across the desk, empty. My tongue and head still remember it vividly and struggle to superimpose its jubilant spirit onto the dry (although exceedingly well thought out) pages of the book.
I walked outside, ran really, with my head buried deep in the folds of my coat, which was zipped up to where it was encroaching on my chin. I sucked down a cigarette, all the while nervous that someone would come and try to make communication with me. Every time I heard the creak of a door, or the padding of footsteps, my heart would jump and my mind would race to pre-formulate small talk so that I would not be left with my tongue dangling in unexpected, impromptu conversation. As soon as I had finished, I hurried back towards the elevator. I pushed the button and the light, indicating the current whereabouts of the elevator, seemed to stuck on level two for a suspiciously long time. I became nervous. Perhaps it was people and I would have to share the elevator; drown in a thick, gooey, awkward silence. If I got on to that elevator I would undoubtedly have to persevere through a barrage of invasive questioning of which I had few answers and no inclinations. I walked the stairs. And now I’m back here. Mourning over the spiteful emptiness of the whiskey bottle.
There is a wonderful picture on the cover of the book “Utopia”. I believe it is supposed to be the tower of Babel. Them immense and incomplete roof, disappears into the clouds is topped with thousands of thatched crosses, which I cannot believe to be a mistake. All the same, it’s wonderful. I’m going back in.
I walked outside, ran really, with my head buried deep in the folds of my coat, which was zipped up to where it was encroaching on my chin. I sucked down a cigarette, all the while nervous that someone would come and try to make communication with me. Every time I heard the creak of a door, or the padding of footsteps, my heart would jump and my mind would race to pre-formulate small talk so that I would not be left with my tongue dangling in unexpected, impromptu conversation. As soon as I had finished, I hurried back towards the elevator. I pushed the button and the light, indicating the current whereabouts of the elevator, seemed to stuck on level two for a suspiciously long time. I became nervous. Perhaps it was people and I would have to share the elevator; drown in a thick, gooey, awkward silence. If I got on to that elevator I would undoubtedly have to persevere through a barrage of invasive questioning of which I had few answers and no inclinations. I walked the stairs. And now I’m back here. Mourning over the spiteful emptiness of the whiskey bottle.
There is a wonderful picture on the cover of the book “Utopia”. I believe it is supposed to be the tower of Babel. Them immense and incomplete roof, disappears into the clouds is topped with thousands of thatched crosses, which I cannot believe to be a mistake. All the same, it’s wonderful. I’m going back in.