'The lad's so scrawny, a slip of a boy, eyes of a basset hound... A gal visits him by night, one such with stilts. Don't know what she chews on. Isn't he ashamed?' Prudes next-door are slandering.

I imagine: as if a couple from a Gothic painting - arms spindly, bodies out of proportion. Willy-nilly they both settle themselves in my head. The images are seeping into my mind with no control from my side. Artistic, I muse.

Their gawky, bony bodies are moving in an even rhythmic manner. Parched lips, closed eyes, lids tingling. Their hands slipping pass the neck, verging on the shoulder blades, the nails clawing at the skin. The girl's nudging little bristols are like sour apples. Keeling over, stretching out the slender legs, crooking the toes with pleasure, they are panting. Running up, suspending. The gal's wailing. The lad's keeping himself manly even though the boyish body seems to be breaking in the instant...

It's an immodest way of thinking about seen or heard people. It's a vile method of creating a story, writing a pseudo biography from the tiny teeny slips of mind. Really, it's not thinking about the people at all and it's not their stories in the end. It works as dreams -- the things you find in the realm are the ones you fear or wish the most.

You're standing in a strange, foreign land, at the height providential to someone, on the structure lacking stability. You feel, you quaintly indulge in the heat, redolent of sour cherry and chemicals heat. You're feeling good. Never before have you tarried so much before throwing out the fag. Never before have you deliberately drawn in the already mean and gnawing puff. Because you're feeling good. You don't pout. You think of the present throbbing sound inside where the Bohemia breathes, where the ghosts walk. You sigh. You do? You are not. Only the little frame of a soul, the quaggy hinge of it, is. You don't know how many times have you already asked yourself where you are. If you don't know - who should? You plain - maybe nobody is...

You kiss the neck of the bottle, the warm with hands neck, you don't swallow a poison - it is the elixir of guts, of trust, of latitude. And you blink over and over again. Not even with eyes, your entire anima is flickering! To the wonder. To the delight of everything. And to the disparate else, too. Whilst this insolent Something is dilating, from the shy tip of a tongue it's growing, twisting, it thrives. And then you find yourself seated in the jungle of Something, where instead of a knife you're handling a thought. Not for the viperous waste, but for the path.

The perishing fear of this wraith keeping and never losing its form is enchaining me. I fear, I shudder to think of it that you will take up the spanless latitudes without even your very presence. That I'll keep seeing you in a beer mug,  in a wry letter of an essay, in a complex maths problem, in an eerie shadow in a gloomy alley, in each and every dour stone by the trains, in the genius of Gavelis' sentences, in the nonsense of any pathological behaviour...
 
   but the worst, the very excruciating thing is that you'll be looking at me from any, from all of them at once, from the cosmic loving face and you'll grin at my inability to turn away, and you'll take the pride in being able to drown out everybody without even your very presence.

It seems as if no one has a road ahead, really... We are strolling about like dossers: vacuous, with pride of half-full fifths in both hands and hopefully the lot in the sloppy knapsacks... or mirthful with the ephemeral novelties, too, mostly not as unworn as said. This voracity of pythons, which doesn't leave even the mouths themselves afterwards, simply sits on me, preys upon my mind and upon the ghost of my very own. And the manifold brain knowing which only leads to the merest wanton lunacy likewise. Doesn't it haunt anybody else?

You do not belong! Neither do I. I'm not even sure if there is anyone belonging... Sometimes it seems to me as if everyone is truly and madly miserable and lone, the honest blind alley underdogs. It is only the matter of time before they suss it out. Though when they do, when this sill of airiness is overstepped... they will lapse into illness. Into the lethal world of their true own. And then I ask: who are the sick?