All the body is lonely, beyond what one has oneself done. Still it cannot sink into the ground it stands upon, cannot sink and stop. - paula
i'm feeling the point of the black marker pen on my bare chest.
"you'll see, it'll look great!"
"are you sure it'll wash off?"
the pen makes unfamiliar movements: lines, curves, waves. i can barely feel it.
"take a look in the mirror!"
in the bright bathroom light i see myself, naked except for the strange sign on my chest. it does indeed look rather fancy and cool. returning to the living room where the only light is coming from the red digits of the clock blinking '03:05 AM' - this place is on a mission - i'm mumbling:
"yeah, you're right. it's kindofcool..."
but honestly : me and a tattoo? as if there wasn't enough pain already.
"...what does it mean?"
"ha! i won't tell you! come under here, you'll catchacold!"
a warm blanket is folded over my legs.
"oh come on, tell me!"
"it means this..." and the sentence is finished by a kiss. i feel the general sense of unease become more concrete. i'm asking myself how it is possible to not notice that the stereo has been playing the same swing-jazz-standard song ever since we changed from the sofa to the bed and back the beat goes round and round the beat goes round and round. i start to wonder whether there's a point to all of this. i have to keep thinking about last night and the sign that you left in passing by. as if you looked back. not just once? [as i'm writing this, knee jumping up and down, wound up, close to exploding, biting my tongue until i'm tasting blood (swallowing it quickly before the beasts can scent my tracks), cold sweat running down my belly – the sense of overwhelming urgency in thom's voice : what the hell is he singing about what the hell? it doesn't sound like a happy encounter, it fucking doesn't sound like a happy encounter. wonder what image that jigsaw is displaying] i hear the animal screaming of the old hopemachine down in the basement as its clogs and wheels start to revolve gladly, it isn't rusty enough to not work. then my mind switches to the photos alice took in new york, the skyline and the crowded streets and her little girl holding a toy polar bear called "dracula". i *knew* they were feeding on blood! the way the hand holding my hand starts to twitch suddenly pulls me out of my thoughts. sure signs of sleep : the slow, regular, deep breathing, the full body weight upon mine, the random nonsensical movements of an arm or a leg or a finger : a familiar behavior, wanted and searched for, but loosening my gaze from rapid eye movement behind closed lids and the reflection of faint red clocklight on brown skin i'm staring at the nightly skyline and i'm realizing that everything tonight will remain an eternal second order substitution. i feel like a liar and a faker, even though there had been some kind of genuine tenderness in answering these affectionate touches and kisses which tasted like echoes, mixing with an afterimage of thom's voice promising it's all it's all it's all it's alright! it's all it's all it's all it's alright it's all it's all ... wish i would finally find myself in a place where this promise will lose its bitter, ironic tone.
