Μια κοκέσι αν θες, το άγαλμά της αστερικό περίμενε τον ήλιο να τη λιώσει. Στον ήλιο όμως λιώνουν οι κούκλες του κεριού, οι άλλες απλά παλιώνουν.
mind the gap
How I came to this eddy of train lodging, remains persistently blur. All I can recall is the stagnant negation towards my any possible request for leave, though in the beginning the exact opposite seemed rather definite.
Being here for an inconveniently long period, I fail to make whether I work, live or travel on trains. I have still lost track of my attempts to step and run off the velveteen purple seats or the deftly cleaned and upsettingly hygienic sliding doors. Hence, I go on with my eyes watching_
Passengers, bookish ones, falling heavy on their space, driven by some narcotic substance molded in the pages of their newspapers, with heads bowing, noiseless, awfully cheerless, semi-hypnotized only to let go of the paper just a few seconds before their stop.
Then there is the family of apes; my guess is two thirds of the planet is inhabited by this species_ clutching backpacks, gesturing or smoking at the bar, mimicking one another, making sounds and producing lexemes that fail me. Funny group this one. Sometimes I even prefer the stoopies to them. They appear so extremely preoccupied with motions and some awkward expressive systems they like to engage themselves in, such as rubbing their bodies close and using their hands to wipe another ape’s body part, or their tongue and mouth to explore another ape’s territory, it’s scary how. I came to understand that this is a principle they follow, but they only express that principle in pairs. Nevertheless, they, like the stoopies, get off as frequently, only to be seen a few weeks later on another train, or the same for that matter.
As the train slides out tunnel c4, my eyes alert my sensors that we’re about to exit the tunnel to the countryside. I have never witnessed a lot going on in there, so I tend to consider it a happy place. Patches of sky come down to meet the simplistic and raw lines of dirt and green, occasionally white from the snow, or still with small ponds of rainwater, ochre yellow or wavy with wind. Woe-grey traffic on the interstate, cuts through the muted rust of electricity towers, oil-springs, winded pulleys and cranes plunge deep, then go hurled up, as blizzards of UV rays hit tar _ all nice_
Seconds later, my ears start focusing on the drone sourcing from the bumpiness, I’m lulled to sleep, deep, big sleep, of a dead like a log _ my head a peculiar spoon, cracks the crust of a crème-brûlée universe and nose-dives into the unconscious of it all_ or that is what I think at least_