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Blogs: The Old Hotel of Lost Souls

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    • CommentAuthorflecky
    • CommentTimeFeb 1st 2012 edited
     (10472.1)
    Deleted because, well, it just is...

    I dreamt about the Crossed last night. There's something in the water!
    • CommentAuthorflecky
    • CommentTimeFeb 1st 2012 edited
     (10472.2)
    Annnnd that insanity has gone too!
    • CommentAuthorflecky
    • CommentTimeFeb 1st 2012 edited
     (10472.3)
    Smothered by a veil of purple guilt...
    • CommentAuthorflecky
    • CommentTimeFeb 1st 2012 edited
     (10472.4)
    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...

    Straaaaaaange Times.
    • CommentAuthorflecky
    • CommentTimeJun 13th 2012 edited
     (10472.5)
    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!
    • CommentAuthorflecky
    • CommentTimeJul 4th 2012
     (10472.6)
    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.
    • CommentAuthorflecky
    • CommentTimeAug 5th 2012
     (10472.7)
    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.
    • CommentAuthorflecky
    • CommentTimeApr 28th 2013 edited
     (10472.8)
    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.
    • CommentAuthorflecky
    • CommentTimeMay 13th 2013
     (10472.9)
    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?
    • CommentAuthorflecky
    • CommentTimeJun 3rd 2013
     (10472.10)
    It all could be a lot worse, though...
    • CommentAuthorflecky
    • CommentTime4 days ago
     (10472.11)
    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.
    • CommentAuthorflecky
    • CommentTime1 day ago
     (10472.12)
    That rat-fuck Two-Pints O'Donnell! If that mick bastard drinks on my watch again, I swear to god...

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