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: The Old Hotel of Lost Souls
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Feb 1st 2012
Deleted because, well, it just is...
I dreamt about the Crossed last night. There's something in the water!
Feb 1st 2012
Annnnd that insanity has gone too!
Feb 1st 2012
Smothered by a veil of purple guilt...
Feb 1st 2012
A bitter pill to swallow
Abstinence would make the hurt grow fonder
Using methadone as a substitute for opiate addiction is like weaning vampires off human blood and on to artificial plasma
1937, Nazi Germany...
Jun 13th 2012
Hideous using dreams where I'm injecting heroin into my lower lip and squirting it all over my face.
Fuck you, Desire! Leave me alone, subconscious malcontent entity!
Jul 4th 2012
The city is a bombed wreck of bacon-flesh coils.
Prime targets lie on the tracks, salted by a lack of happy-dance.
Engineers howl in unison, each one skilled in outdoing the other.
That feeling, when your alone in a dark room and looking at scraps of old newspapers.
Your so sensitive, open to suggestion and the will of other people.
You drink more brandy, and the throat rattles as you cough-up last nights cigarettes.
Instead of making that important call, you pick at a piece of renegade plaster.
You can't even get the strength to kill the bugs that crawl over your skin.
Biotech augmentations ripple under the skin, each rising to crying orgasm.
Some would say it's morbid introspection, too much time alone.
But you know better.
You've been with people; good with their words, with jaw-yapping.
Pointless quests to make meaning from the anxiety that ripples under reality.
The face melts at the window, the door slams shut.
Something you don't understand is now in the room.
As the air-hostess said, it's all shit.
She'd just lost someone she loved, her handsome features crossed with lines of crashing.
You stumbled past her grandiose house, aware that she is damaged.
She's as desperate as you to make a connection, but your morality stops you from taking advantage.
Do you really want to catch her eye over the technology, guilt making you crawl?
Brandy and cigarettes are all you have now.
Knock yourself out.
Eat a bug.
Aug 5th 2012
There are certain memories that never really reach your brain. They stay in your blood like a dormant virus. Then something triggers them and you don't remember the moment; instead, you relive every detail . It's the reliving, not the original experience, that your brain registers. (I) think this happens more as you get older.
I didn't write that, but I concur.
Apr 28th 2013
It's not resembling a hotel at the moment; it's more looking like a small block of offices converted into mini-flats. The souls, of which there are plenty, seem to be going about their own business.
I'm lost here, I really am. Since signing an agreement of tenancy, I'm just getting by on a day-by-day basis.
I occasionally start a story, but after a page or so it just shrivels into a waste of bloated weirdness that probably needs a sick-mind to see it come to fruition; I'm slightly better nowadays, no-longer fueled by insanity, resentment, bile, revenge and murderous intent, but still prone to bouts of depression. All that shit is always lurking, ready to rip a hole at any time.
May 13th 2013
I fear I'm going back into an old mode of behavior. Dirty cracks springing up to trip me up. Shaking like a bastard from anger and irritability from being in too close proximity to some of these people.
All this bloody work - detox, rehab, meetings etc. And I still feel the same. Fuck's sake - I will fight this depression and early drug free bollocks until I get well. Until then...
BY ANY MEANS NECESSARY: SURVIVAL OF A RAT-FUCK BASTARD.
Ha-Ha - I'm listening to Glen Campbell! What's happening to me?
Jun 3rd 2013
It all could be a lot worse, though...
Jun 14th 2013
Voice control, seeping through the wall in resentment mode.
Picking the little pieces from a place of gritty realism.
Funny...this place; this dry-house of lost souls. 8 in total.
Sick. Damaged. In denial. Each striving to reach a place of non-linear perfection. Or ultimate damage. Some fall on the way, leaving a trail of emotional damage in their wake. They don't think - or even care - about the consequences of their actions. Maybe tomorrow, when they wake to the cold light of day, they will be hit by blotchy-blue-red-speckled-light as they caress their temples with a pinch of their fingers.
Strolling the drive, it's what I do. Come nighttime, it's all lukewarm coffee spliced with a sweaty madness; an exhibition, of sorts.
Then comes the sleep. With that comes waves of surrender. It's the payoff for getting through the day. No agents of control can touch that.
Jun 17th 2013
That rat-fuck Two-Pints O'Donnell! If that mick bastard drinks on my watch again, I swear to god...
Jun 26th 2013
I wake-up to a dry-heat. I get no pleasure from this. I make coffee and roll a cigarette and groan my way downstairs to the place out the back of the house where I tend to sit. I'm aware that I've put on my glasses and brought a book downstairs with me. I'm not going to read it.
Man One comes downstairs and joins me for a cigarette. He smokes, looking cool. I can hear the staff being over-zealous about moving a new a new male into the house. I am tempted to go indoors and tell them to shut-the-fuck-up. Instead, I pull a grimace and chew on my resentment. I've been awake for about twenty minutes and I can feel my sickness rising.
Girl One comes downstairs. She is pretty, but has no make-up on to cover her damage. She talks something about her boyfriend. She used to walk miles to get a bottle of vodka. Her boyfriend and her are now split-up. She met her boyfriend after she stopped drinking. I get a brief sense of glee knowing that their relationship was not going to work-out ages ago. I look down at the multitude of cigarette butts that surround me. There are literally hundreds of them in the yard.
Boy One, who lives on the ground-floor, is awake. This is heralded by him putting on some gangster-rap. It sounds awful. Man One smiles and says something about Boy One waking up to ego. The rap is going on about how menacing and tough and awesome the rapper is. I spit and say the rapper is a prick who wouldn't last ten seconds in the trenches of world war two. I know I'm right and take this as a certainty.
Man One asks Girl One about the scars on her arms. I think he is doing this from a caring place. She says they are from self-harming. I notice that they are very neat scars. This brings out the worst in me. I don't know whether I want to protect her, fuck her, or kill her. She is half my age.
Ten minutes later, and I'm the last person sitting out the back of this house. Gulls fly around. I look at the rectangular plant pot a few feet away from me, dismayed that all the plants are dead.
Aug 14th 2013
Hello - this is Pete from the place you were before - sorry I never brought you any comics, I was swept away. I don't know how to do private messages on here, but hello. Where are you in the world? Still nearby? I hope you are well...
Aug 18th 2013
@debord: Ah, now I get you. Hello Pete from &*£$%^+. No, you can't do private messages on here. I'm OK-ish. Drop a message on this blog-thing anytime you like. I hope your taking care of yourself.
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