The flu leaves you with that flat and sour smell of phlegm in your system, with that sticky coat of shiny wax over the layer of hair and skin, a concentrate at it's best on the nose and the forehead, if not the back.
Sick I have been, of the hectic yet at times unstimulating commune called school. Yet in this curse over me, I find it as a blessing in disguise. Feeling useless and weak as you sloth around the house has it's blessings, as it finally makes your mind wander towards things.
Nostalgia is a perfect subject. Making the domino walking mind trail into each other's connections to tip tap tip top, strengthening the nerves to bring us a distant memory of a place, the smell, the bright vividness that puts us in picture perfect mood. A child who carries the face of yours, supple and slightly dimpled, looking the other way round, with her arms around a disneyland mascot. It seems that her brown hair was on fire, but it was only a sunny afternoon. In winter. In the city of Paris in the Nirvana year of 1995.
It makes you think about your current sorry state of mind. Am I really burning out or is that paracetamol getting to my head? It's both sweetie, now take another one and go to bed.
I can say that the wage my father got from Glaxo had been repaid in minor installed subconsious amounts from all the Panadol bottles bought since birth. Herr, Herr doctor.
It really amazes me what you can learn in a day, or realize, or regain strength in. Wait make that three days, three whole sets of 24 multiples of 60 minutes having 60 seconds in one. Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, the peanut crunching crowd as Sylvia the poet anak perempuan Plath has said, I now add, behold the days of absentia I have put myself into. Only to be demerited by a shirted man in blue, caught in flagrante delicto.
Mais oui, bien sur. I shall post when I am not so utterly, intoxicantly, mad.
Staring at this page, writing unsuccessful drafts of psychology then another unsuccessfull one of evolution does that to you. You realize you're walking around a stick in a circled triangle. Only to stop for toilet breaks or sips of Ribena that tastes like Blood since anything mixed with phlegm tastes bad. Yucks, the aftertaste of chicken rice. Man it was good.
You go maaaaa-ad. Just to tell you all I'm fine. Just maaaa-aad.
Sick I have been, of the hectic yet at times unstimulating commune called school. Yet in this curse over me, I find it as a blessing in disguise. Feeling useless and weak as you sloth around the house has it's blessings, as it finally makes your mind wander towards things.
Nostalgia is a perfect subject. Making the domino walking mind trail into each other's connections to tip tap tip top, strengthening the nerves to bring us a distant memory of a place, the smell, the bright vividness that puts us in picture perfect mood. A child who carries the face of yours, supple and slightly dimpled, looking the other way round, with her arms around a disneyland mascot. It seems that her brown hair was on fire, but it was only a sunny afternoon. In winter. In the city of Paris in the Nirvana year of 1995.
It makes you think about your current sorry state of mind. Am I really burning out or is that paracetamol getting to my head? It's both sweetie, now take another one and go to bed.
I can say that the wage my father got from Glaxo had been repaid in minor installed subconsious amounts from all the Panadol bottles bought since birth. Herr, Herr doctor.
It really amazes me what you can learn in a day, or realize, or regain strength in. Wait make that three days, three whole sets of 24 multiples of 60 minutes having 60 seconds in one. Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, the peanut crunching crowd as Sylvia the poet anak perempuan Plath has said, I now add, behold the days of absentia I have put myself into. Only to be demerited by a shirted man in blue, caught in flagrante delicto.
Mais oui, bien sur. I shall post when I am not so utterly, intoxicantly, mad.
Staring at this page, writing unsuccessful drafts of psychology then another unsuccessfull one of evolution does that to you. You realize you're walking around a stick in a circled triangle. Only to stop for toilet breaks or sips of Ribena that tastes like Blood since anything mixed with phlegm tastes bad. Yucks, the aftertaste of chicken rice. Man it was good.
You go maaaaa-ad. Just to tell you all I'm fine. Just maaaa-aad.
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