Friday, 8 April 2011

Paperbag Writer. Day Eight

Lars comes to visit me but I practically mouth him a phrase which has been lingering in my thoughts but he stays over anyway, saying that if his guitar playing irritates me he’ll stop.

I nod rubbing my nose into the pillow, I wonder if there'll be someone instead of the six pillows I have to make a circle around me, can I get to heaven this way? As he watches me rather amused. I catch him glancing at me and he starts telling me about himself about his past lovers, yes, he had some, I want to ask him if they were the detuned guitars, but my tongue produces nothing but saliva, does tongue even produce that? Shit, it doesn't.

The cast upon his leg is told, another person's problems never worth mentioning, unless the person was the problem you wanted and how he got into his guitar. I rub myself deeper into the pillow not being able to hold the first three seconds but in the end I have no option, but I still feel tense until the end of the story.

But he never thinks that even his stories or mentions of the instrument irritate me even more. Personal reasons. But I don’t tell that to an excited guy with his leg in a cast. I wonder if he actually can hit me with it. In the head. Make my voice go back.

Get me in a coma.

Make me wake up in my thirties.

With kids.



With piercing holes due to the new sub-culture coming.

Maybe a few tattoos.

In the end I ask nothing, I say nothing and he leaves soon enough satisfied with himself.

Day Nine-Ten

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