In Heaven

in heaven
everything is fine
in heaven
everything is fine
youve got your good things
and youve got mine

Stare

Dying Ember

Dear dad,
Fire burns inside of us
Pale, limpid, or scorching red
And mummy was the crimson sunset
Because she would not listen
Because you
Because you would not listen to the bird and her word
It descended upon a mansion
Bathing hell
And burned, treasured memories
Troves of forgotten lore, carnality gone
Selfish, misbegotten waif in lair...
Had it not been for an argument
Had it not been
Had it not been a day in December
A young man from a bar with a car and an ember
I would not be, I would not have been as I am
I would not be...

The Man in the Moon

Fish Heads

Hoodwinked

I'm not sure if anyone can read this, I don't know where this entry will go when I hit "publish entry" when I'm done, for all I know it might disappear into nothingness just like my mind.

I don't know what is happening. I look back at my more recent entries where I ramble off like a lunatic, where I seem to forget everything I've ever learned about grammar and proper punctuation or how to use certain words, but oh things have gone far beyond mere schizophrenia now, I fear. Is it normal to suddenly fall in and out of third person? I can't remember these things ever happening. I remember writing but I don't recall doing so in third person. Why would I forget.

No one is answering me. No one's going to answer this, either. All of my other entries have gone unanswered, only the older ones have replies. They're there, mocking me of a time long since gone. Have people truly abandoned me, then? I guess that is for the best. They can feel the stench of sin in these written words, but it is not my sin that they fear the most - it simply reminds them of how much worse theirs are compared to mine.

Especially Mary. Oh I think you've fooled everyone including yourself. Everyone thinks you're pure. But we have seen how easily one can mould you; but there are not always an excuse to hide behind, are there. Who would seduce a man like Robbie, anyway? A man bordering on the line of mental retardation? I know how it is. I see the truth; I know what kind of person you are. Trying to take care of him as if he was your patient and quite frankly, from what I have seen, you are not very good at what you do. Then you drag him along on your quaint little adventures - if we can even call them that - without much concern for his safety. Oh yes, I know you're concerned for him, you're concerned for everyone in your surroundings. Say, are you concerned for me, still?

... You're not going to answer. Or if you do, I will not see it. Fine. I do not need any contact with anyone. But you are dense, Mary, if you think that having him cooped up in your apartment or anywhere else will help. In the end it will be too little, if he so much as looks upon the blank face of truth, then I fear he is gone; ah, but perhaps not, maybe his weak mind will think it to be only a dream and so he will eventually forget about it. Maybe he won't even be afraid.

Isn't that interesting, my friend? He won't be afraid, while you will shiver like a leaf at the very mention of His name.

I wish only to tell you that I do not hate you. I have said such spiteful things, but even my most foul words, even my abuse - I do it because I love you. It is because I love you that all the strange things happen to you, and it is the reason as to why I am so angry at you, as well.

I can see you, Mary. I can see you through the pages of my notebook, what you do in the day, how you toss and turn at night. You might want to try some sleeping pills but they do have side effects. I know.

I am able to read blog entries curiously enough, but not comments. I don't know whether to trust what I read or not though... everything is so slurred, so... hazy. Only my own words are clear to me, for the moment being. I fear this will not last long. If I'm not allowed to communicate through various tools found on the internet, then fine.

Observer

It took a while, but now it has happened.

Andreas approached Alice with some hesitation and for a while it seemed like he was unable of finding the right words, but eventually the glue that held his lips together was dissolved, and thus he spoke; he had seen Him. He spoke not with the erratic fear of a leporine, however there was a decidedly overhanging fear in the room as he re-told his story. It had been a normal day (typical), he began, until he saw something standing outside one of the windows. Andreas had been peacefully rolling down the hall when he saw the stranger; an unknown man whom, he soon realised, he didn't want anything to do with. A blank face, tall, thin-- every detail fitting.

Nothing happened.

He blinked and the man in the suit was gone instantaneously. He had not told anyone, out of fear of being mocked, or told that he was delirious. Couldn't have a loony in a wheelchair out and about, now could we? They talked a bit while Alice contemplated whether she should tell him or not - but it was not such a hard decision.

"The Tailor?" he said. "That is an odd name."
Odd, perhaps, but is he not a tailor so say? Just like an author, a painter - creating, painting a scene; fabricating the characters, adding, deleting; sewing the whole story together with thread made out of sinew.
Alice told her friend that He had many names. We have many names for the things we love - or as we say in Swedish, "Kärt barn har många namn".

"There is no need to worry," she said. "He is merely observing."