l
width="475" height="400">
.:Tuesday, April 12, 2005:.
::



Samson. Halfzware Shag. Geen rood maar zwart.


"If you can just get your mind together then come across to me, we'll hold hands and then we'll watch the sunrise from the bottom of the sea. But first, are you experienced?"


Sepia into Red, Perhaps I read the ash from too much cigarrettes, I tend to seek for answers that dont rely there, the smoke is just penetrating and killing my lungs, the world to that destructive smoke, which burns before you can say dung, death or even ask God for mercy.
Wind in and out of wholesome lungs.
Red into grey leaving one still with the intolerable wrestle, with a shocking valuation of all we have been and all we will never be.
The wisdom only the knowledge of dead secrets, and the wisdom of age? is it just a number or a whole constellation of events and experiences? Is knowledge derived from experience?
Grey into black, dawn points at the country side, clouds move, music moves, but the song remains the same..."meisjes met rode haren die kunnen kussen, dat is niet mis...". The black cloud carries the sun away and takes a red globe with it. Red globe down on you, pretending to travel the world in 80 days... bah, who am I kidding 40, 32. The red globe moves perpetually after the black cloud in its stillness.

What is the late April doing with the disturbance of the spring?
This is my world of perpetual solitude, where violins play with abstention from movement and red curls get empty of sensuality and deprivation. World or not world...
Dreams in the world of sexuality. Evacuation of the world of fancy, red lights of the world of spirit. Wind in and out of wholesome lungs.
Black into brown, orgasms reconciled among the stars, the trilling wire in the blood, after all I'm all in (insert colour here). Stars in the lowlands that haven't known the word spring in four seasons. Stars, seasons and constellations. Stelle marroni belle.
Land that simulates sunshine, fake. All fake. Land that waits until the red globe goes down, with the smoke and that black cloud, which use to be white, but it has been painted.
The only thing that kkeeps it's white colour is the chocolate, neither Belgian nor Swiss. Chocolate with no identification whatsoever, neither here nor there. Just white with red skin.
Voices of temptation, filled up with tobacco, dutch tobacco. Wind in and out of wholesome lungs.
Is this desire? Desire itself is movement. Love wont move, it stills the same (like the song) but I'm roodkapje and I desire love between mirrors and cigarettes, older than the time counted by anxious worried women. I take care of business and foolish letters.
Tobacco brown, perhaps this text should be read when the short day is the brightest, srping gets meaning and it's own season. When knowledge and age are no longer issues, (they aren't for me), when friends will be friends, worlds will go beyond asthenia and when our last breath will be filled up with nicotine from the lion, the shag, zware shag.





All pictures taken by Laura B.
Now playing: Paranoid Android (Radiohead), Bohemian Rhapsody (Queen), Lift Me Up (Moby), Cabaret (Louis Armstrong), Cocaine (Jimi Hendrix) Best Served with: Ufos.
::

.:Lo wrote this at: 1:53 PM:.
...