Unfortunately I'm not a man of wealth. Of taste? Questionable.
It has yet to occur to me why I find my fingers flung across the keyboard, as the fancy did but take me last night to do so. In time I'm sure the purpose of this blog will become clearer - I myself haven't the faintest what I'm planning to do with it spare shepherding my flock of cliff-diving thoughts. Fear not, no sheep will be harmed in the due process of things to come. Or drug-addled squirrels. Already the last few lines have become a blur and my mind is blank to the future. But let's just see shall we, as we pioneer into that most-dense of fogs that is the unknowable. Perhaps along the way I'll even develop a knack for cutting out the pomp.
Till then. Might as well leave something chewy. Hopefully write again soon.
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A concerto.
Whose? I don't know. I'm misdirected. Fumble.
Something solid slips past my fingertips. I hear contact - cushioned. My phone. My phone? Was it my phone?
No. Too tinny.
I force open a set of eyelids. No, too much, they close. Still a concerto. Mozart? No. I don't think I'm quite ready to know. I try the use of my eyes once more. A slither of light, etched at a knife edge, illuminates. A universe blooms - Michelangelo revels. ( The charlatan! ) The eyelids stay parted. An eyeball flits. My bedroom. My bed. My omniscience denied. Bright though. Holst? My fingers flail, the symphony irritates. They encounter a cable and clench. Hoist.
( Holst? No it definitely isn't Holst ).
I reel in the catch, a thunk-thunk-thunk as my phone makes it's way to my hunter's maw. Another eye opens, satisfied the first attested no imminent threat. Focus now. Focus. A squint and the face - the phone's, not mine - distorts, contorts and then...retorts? It mocks. Giger's Transcendence stares back. What? The backlight envelops, His Darkness disappears. Not the answer I sought. Greig? Possibly. Was it Halls of...? Could I mistake that? The phone falls. That's that. I've asserted myself.
Mere moments have passed since that music whafted into my subconscious. I can't find the Power button. It's the big one. Oval. A click - euphoria, elation! The beast is slain! An end to oppresion! Avast! This is the word I find most appealing. It needn't make sense. Not at this point. But silence. Ha-ah!
What time was it? I recall my phone and it's debauchery. But not the time. I didn't seek the time then. I do now.
The radio alarm blinks a tenuous, scarlet red. It's digits phase in and out. 11:00 it exclaims.
11:00.
11:00.
11:00.
A down-sized AM sits in the corner. Ethereality has vanished, leaving only substance. Solid, concerto-playing, slumber reaping substance. I think back to the harmony and realise I seem to have forgotten already. It's as vague to me now as it's ancestral partner from the morning prior. Eyes wide, I fight the urge to stay rooted to my haven. Leave me be, O vile fascist daemon! It's in vain though, I fear. I'm pre-programmed.
I attempt to roll myself but my shoulders feel like a steely bulwark, unrelenting in their steely-bulwarkiness. Heavy. Defending. Back you, Harlot of Responsibility! I thwart your efforts! Nay I say, nay!
Turns out the bitch brought a tank. Infact, call it a juggernaught. Whump! Crack!
The bulwark topples.
The battle is over before it began,
Nelson weeps, passing a kiss,
O Discordia!
I'm sitting. Cruelly tepid air descends upon my duvet-warm self. Blasted crows, you'll not have my eyeballs! You'll not get that jelly-goodness! Not this time!
A petulant flap of arms.
An exhalation of reluctant concordance.
I'll brace myself for this flock, but they shant have my tender bits! I take a moment - a carefully picked moment - to listen. Tap-tap-tap? No. There is no tap-tap-tap. I am alone then? With an unrivalled slothfullness, one's carcass ( certainly if the curmudgeonly crows get their way ) is hauled out of bed, struggling through the remnants of my duvet. A victim of war. All's fair. I shall mourn ye well, fine duvet, you were among the bravest.
A funeral knell explodes with aplomb. Fucking radio-alarm. I find it with a deftness and certainty you'd spy in an act of vengeance. Vehement. Vicious. Victorious. I win. I envision Bill Murray, pummelling that radio into oblivion and then some. This is after all another day. A different day. Same shit. But different day. Bill Murray would appreciate this. Truly. Perhaps I may dine finely this day. Become a grandmaster in feng-shui bazantar-ing. Hit reset.
I have a crooked typist's fingers anyways. I would defile that grandiose instrument. It doesn't occur to me to doubt my sense of decor.
But I say true ( you daren't say thankya ), it is another day ( a different day ) with every bit of kith and kin as the day before it.
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