Hic Sunt Dracones

the smylere with the knyf under the cloke

Ich Liege mit Grippe im Bett

Head spinning. Eyes bleary. Ambiance sound deafening. Eastern sun blinding.

I woke up; locking the door behind Kurt. Took the sleeping bag into his room. There’s something pleasant in the darkness of his room: cozy with vague warmth. Must be because I’m freezing to the bones.

Still feverish. I’m delirious. I’m looking for comfort from that someone. Hoping the gloom lighten up.

Head spinning. Eyes still bleary. The din kinder to the ears. Light playing between the blinds.

The three least favourable answer that I would expect:

  1. “It’s too fucking early in the morning to call me!”
  2. “Hmm, yeah?” (Distant muttering)
  3. “Baby, phone.” ([His] voice)

I got the numero uno.

Did I mention the sun’s blinding? Perhaps it’s not that too early in the morning. The oft calls I received from her at pre-dawn is what I perceive as off the mark “early” wake-up call.

I popped in the painkiller, and I found comfort in the generic analgesic drugs instead of her healing voice that comes with cathartic effect. The soothing pampering voice that I much expected, far apart from that morning rebuking tone.

I cocooned inside the sleeping bag. Nose running like cascade. Heart beating with palpitation. Mass of body swirling under the phantom crushing pressure. I descended into the abyss of erkältungskrankheiten.

Sleeping under the narcosis of misery, the mind voiced its frustration, whispering the ersatz infatuation of the fleeting “early” morning conversation:

“Wie bist du Gefühl, baby?”

Maybe I should start looking other way to soothe myself, with my own imaginative cosseting.

Like a forlorn narcissist.

Ich liebe mich.

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Written by cthulhu

July 23, 2007 at 8:45 pm

Posted in life and dream

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