three's a crowd

four miss calls. clumsy situations. perfect people. sweet next times, next times.

six pack of beer, nuts and someone to make me laugh and cry.

santa, oh santa, that's all I want for christmas.

shamrock the future

in a conversation with mr tsunami, we realised

the great fucks:

1. intellectual

2. reckless

3. romantic

the worst fucks:

1. remedial

2. remorseful

the best fuck:

1. forbidden

relationships are like cigarettes. addictive, fun, image-driven, fantasy cravings, expensive, ridden with useless warnings, bad for health, keep you occupied, a lifestyle choice. relationships create this atmosphere, that would make puff the magic dragon go a little bit more high and twisted.

so here I am wearing mr pop's evisu jacket every night, and getting into this shit awful mess once again. but who can resist that crisp feeling of having just lit a cigarette and watching the billowing, rolling smoke speak to the clouds and stars?

he's my lucky strike.

ssshh, if you don't tell anyone, I won't either.

spin, spin, sugar

a dress that floats upon the waters with lingering attachment to its forgotten owner. the owner lies in the sanctuary of her bathroom translating her sensory experiences for the day before anoesis takes hold. Naked, she remembers her eyes wide open, ears pounding traffic, sharing laughter, sashimi and beer, fortunate detours, a glimpse of ambition and what it means.

according to books, death can actually be relaxing.

playthings

assumptions make the world go picasso. who is she? who is he? that's what we all do, don't we? ponder, allude, and conclude based on those so-so moments in life. those moments that don't exactly shine and aren't exactly dangerous. sometimes i wish i was a jamaican smoking pot, talking about the glory of punani and laughing at melanoma. life is seemingly insignificant, and unpretentious. especially compared to moments with designated camerawoman/man with all the stereotypes in the fucking world on site, even token electrohouse shuffler. so what exactly is my point here? I have none really. Everyone is a voyeur, whether through their eyes, or through facebook, and life is just that little more interesting. Whether you call it gut instinct, psychic abilities, or your total knowledge of the universe, you decide and define. It could land you as a (cyber)troglodyte, the next dalai lama/siddartha or in a mental asylum. Me? I'd prefer to be the object of voyeurism, a sex on the beach in one hand, and a book in the other.

lose sight

every relationship exists a secret shared, and maybe sometimes, even abandoned. Your sexual organs, those intellectual organs, those rudimentary organs, all interact with each other. The question is: which organs undermine the others? The more I think about this, the more I realise they mould into one conglomerate piece of shit, where you could roll it into a cuban cigar. But at least I'm a cuban cigar aye?

Some people are like condoms, they break easily. They function in a dull, unimaginative way. But all in all, I'd say most people are fucked. Cheers.

technocolours.

artificial lights, vibrations pulsing, legs open, rhythms rise, cheap consolation.

this is my secret.