Been reading the non-autobiographical-yet-autobiographical journal entries from Malta. Thought I would put this one up here. I was going to DeviantArt it, but as it isn't really 'creative' as such, I thought best not.
"The french girl is beautiful. But she's probably dull as sin, and seems to be too young. Maybe 17?
No-one has yet come to surpass my desire for the one I adore. No signal. The arrival home to no messages I know will disappoint despite preparation.
I need a drink.
I have no vodka.
The bars are closed here.
Must retreat to Literature.
Fear The Ludovician.
Please Love Me"
That was the penultimate evening, on my balcony. This came a few hours before on a wall facing the sea.
"I tried to raise the fact that she had been far more temperamental this trip and I have actually acted as the calming force. She then just stomps off with her cloud of egoism and aura of self-righteousness in tow. She can't even acknowledge what I say.
In the time since then we have endured a painfully slow dinner.
I spoke rarely as my concentration went into shaking my leg to stem the tirade I felt was rising. When I spoke it was just from the menu, yes, no, or about how Michael Jackson's brain has been removed before burial or postulating on how birds would cope if they had no legs.
That's done now and I am on the wall looking out at the dark. I am now an unsettled mix of calm and anger. A split of emotions I am not fully able to comprehend. The novel is still on pause. I am having tense issues.
The french girl is beautiful.
If you don't want to, just say I am hanging in limbo"
It's funny how I was so cohesive when my emotions were more on edge. When I calmed for the balcony, I spoke almost in riddle. I obviously need to write more when I am angry.
This has been a long blog. I am going to work both of these extracts into a short novella in the style of The Informers.
Sans vampires.
spotify:track:5AcWLXw3J6XVC9Ba6SNB0u
No-one has yet come to surpass my desire for the one I adore. No signal. The arrival home to no messages I know will disappoint despite preparation.
I need a drink.
I have no vodka.
The bars are closed here.
Must retreat to Literature.
Fear The Ludovician.
Please Love Me"
That was the penultimate evening, on my balcony. This came a few hours before on a wall facing the sea.
"I tried to raise the fact that she had been far more temperamental this trip and I have actually acted as the calming force. She then just stomps off with her cloud of egoism and aura of self-righteousness in tow. She can't even acknowledge what I say.
In the time since then we have endured a painfully slow dinner.
I spoke rarely as my concentration went into shaking my leg to stem the tirade I felt was rising. When I spoke it was just from the menu, yes, no, or about how Michael Jackson's brain has been removed before burial or postulating on how birds would cope if they had no legs.
That's done now and I am on the wall looking out at the dark. I am now an unsettled mix of calm and anger. A split of emotions I am not fully able to comprehend. The novel is still on pause. I am having tense issues.
The french girl is beautiful.
If you don't want to, just say
It's funny how I was so cohesive when my emotions were more on edge. When I calmed for the balcony, I spoke almost in riddle. I obviously need to write more when I am angry.
This has been a long blog. I am going to work both of these extracts into a short novella in the style of The Informers.
Sans vampires.
spotify:track:5AcWLXw3J6XVC9Ba6SNB0u
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