MACBETH : Oh, full of scorpions is my mind, dear wife!
The Tragedy of Macbeth, William Shakespeare
The inertia has finally fucked off to the shithouse of the dead. It is spraying liquefied entrails all over the walls while in a state of slow demise. In its stead is a brutal madness that demands words and thoughts as payment. As with all deals, there is a price to pay : a sacrifice to bring the angels or demons of our private disposition out to play; a tribute of intensity, rage and the sickness of the razor-sharp slash of the berserk tête-à-tête within.
All day long, I zig-zag the dirt littered streets of Paris, bathed in the Indian summer. I trek from park bench to bar, to staircase, to locked door. Even through my sunglasses, the bright daylight hurts in its lucidity. Like an interrogator’s lamp, it sizzles into my retinas and reminds me that life is a confused assault of information to momentarily bear – until it blinds you enough to stray onto the white lines of a road filled with uncaring vehicles, or the white lines on a kitchen table surrounded by monkeys speaking the same old, same old. I am without, not within, and my mind has wrestled its anxieties to the ground and choked those moithering cunts out with a Brazilian Jiu Jitsu “Lion Killer”. They are spasming and quivering all over the weary sofa that I am currently living on above a strip club. Just like the persistent stream of mosquitoes that enter my dreams and suck the red life juice from my veins, I am squishing their parasitic heads between my thumb and finger as I tap on this plastic keyboard.
And suddenly I am as free as an alley cat.