I have no wisdom. Just my bastard opinions.
Something inside of me has opened, like a great gaping wound in my chest, and all I can feel is the cold inside my soul, passing in and out like a bad dream. On the subject of bad dreams and nightmarish happenings, a few out of sorts events have transpired; vacant cars being pulled over, various figures of my past closing in on me and trying to suffocate me all in a single day...things such as that.
I dare not close my eyes for fear of dying in my sleep. Last time I drowned, other times I've been hit by cars, and the most vivid one was of a live show. I shudder to think of it now. Questions go through my mind as I remember the nightmare...What if we were performing onstage one night, when suddenly I collapsed over my equipment and died? Moaned in the microphone and vomited blood onto the stage? Then Watts falls with a dull thud and the amps are screaming in their high-pitched cries of mechanic angst; Lucia jumps to see what is wrong but falls over immediately, landing on Steve, who looks to Jules in sheer panicked desperation but the latter was already dead, head blown cleanly off...KMFDM taken out by a sniper. What a thought! Behold the inner drama.....trauma.....comedy....Dramaudy?
Crawl off and die. The flag is up and the phone is dead.
Null uhr, the nothing hour...I begin to think of things, reptilian eyes in the darkness things, blades across wrists things, taking too many pills things, curling up and dying things, misplaced footsteps on a staircase things. Those things in this empty, nothing hour. Eyes. Eyes. Eyes. Staring. Accusing. Recriminating. Derisive. Mocking. Infuriated. Raging. Eyes. Eyes. Eyes. Nothing but eyes, all eyes on me, all eyes turned to me, singling me out. Eyes in the shadows, eyes behind pillars, eyes in the sky.
On a more positive note, I’ve received a call from Miss Love. The one and only Courtney, of course. We held a decent conversation. I got wrapped up in the phonecord, I dropped my cigarette, burnt my leg, and hit my head on the wall. It was very…decent. Oh hey, who the fuck eats cookies and milk with a spoon? Me. Sascha Konietzko does. Isn't that sad?
I also drink Mountain Dew at midnight and smoke after sex. Hm, I just realized I'm sitting here with the window wide open to catch the sounds of the rain, and I'm only half-dressed (well if isn't Herr Konietzko, Lord of Too Much Information, God of Tact) and boy, I bet that gave you a nightmarish image. My work here is done.
For now.
-K
Ps- Some of my dear friends owe me phone calls. The cell’s on, most times. If not, leave a message, and I shall get back to you. Kaptn Korruptor on aim, and the_ambler_gambler on yim.
I dare not close my eyes for fear of dying in my sleep. Last time I drowned, other times I've been hit by cars, and the most vivid one was of a live show. I shudder to think of it now. Questions go through my mind as I remember the nightmare...What if we were performing onstage one night, when suddenly I collapsed over my equipment and died? Moaned in the microphone and vomited blood onto the stage? Then Watts falls with a dull thud and the amps are screaming in their high-pitched cries of mechanic angst; Lucia jumps to see what is wrong but falls over immediately, landing on Steve, who looks to Jules in sheer panicked desperation but the latter was already dead, head blown cleanly off...KMFDM taken out by a sniper. What a thought! Behold the inner drama.....trauma.....comedy....Dramaudy?
Crawl off and die. The flag is up and the phone is dead.
Null uhr, the nothing hour...I begin to think of things, reptilian eyes in the darkness things, blades across wrists things, taking too many pills things, curling up and dying things, misplaced footsteps on a staircase things. Those things in this empty, nothing hour. Eyes. Eyes. Eyes. Staring. Accusing. Recriminating. Derisive. Mocking. Infuriated. Raging. Eyes. Eyes. Eyes. Nothing but eyes, all eyes on me, all eyes turned to me, singling me out. Eyes in the shadows, eyes behind pillars, eyes in the sky.
On a more positive note, I’ve received a call from Miss Love. The one and only Courtney, of course. We held a decent conversation. I got wrapped up in the phonecord, I dropped my cigarette, burnt my leg, and hit my head on the wall. It was very…decent. Oh hey, who the fuck eats cookies and milk with a spoon? Me. Sascha Konietzko does. Isn't that sad?
I also drink Mountain Dew at midnight and smoke after sex. Hm, I just realized I'm sitting here with the window wide open to catch the sounds of the rain, and I'm only half-dressed (well if isn't Herr Konietzko, Lord of Too Much Information, God of Tact) and boy, I bet that gave you a nightmarish image. My work here is done.
For now.
-K
Ps- Some of my dear friends owe me phone calls. The cell’s on, most times. If not, leave a message, and I shall get back to you. Kaptn Korruptor on aim, and the_ambler_gambler on yim.