“Summer will be here soon and I like summer even if I’m not the type of person who wastes time telling other people they love summer, I mean, really? Who cares what someone’s seasonal preferences are or not? Do we think this tells us something about who you are? About the kind of person you are?
“The lonely young man listened to the record a couple of times before filing it away in a tin box. The rest of his day was buoyed by the specialness of a secret thing, a thing no one could see, nor guess nor imagine was there. It made the world complicit, and if they looked at him they’d never know, not even by his smile. He could hold onto that when he sat on the bus to college, you know what I mean?
The problem came when he went to the central library to check his find.
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They held their conversation casually while Frank writhed around on the floor in the background. He’d got himself into some kind of a mess and appeared to be wearing a gimp suit and a pair of chinese fingercuffs with a celebration bow mounted on his forehead, although the material didn’t look right and it was difficult to believe it was anything other than elaborately folded bin bags. Either way, the conversation continued.
He broke the mirror in the morning. She started to pack that afternoon.
“But baby!” he cried.
“What’s the point?” she said.
I must break this bedlock.
The problem was that I’d known it was coming. His face was close to mine, his mouth spitting words into my ear as I looked out over the lake. I can’t now recall a single word he said. I’m not sure I understood at the time. It wasn’t important. Perhaps I was thinking of something else, the Victorian legacy of landscape architecture perhaps, they don’t have parks like this anywhere else in the world.
The headbutt was supposed to be a surprise. It wasn’t. But what was was that I replaced my face with a stationary fist. It was unnecessary to contribute further to the blow. He put enough into it himself. I don’t believe I had the intention when I arrived, the possibility would’ve been fantastic, unreal. But there it is, it happened.
The word spread fast and afterwards, as I walked around the lake, they were all there, ranged along the benches with their entourage, dressed only in black. They’d come to pay their respects, to say goodbye to the dead man walking.
Craig took three pills and drank for several hours, he then stole a bottle of gin, captured the eye of certain girl and went looking for a hot-tub. He found one, but the water was lukewarm.
“Me!? Racist!? Homophobic!?” said Lee “I’ve got a black lesbian porno at home and I fucking love it.”
Tim had no rejoinder.
In previous articles I’ve complained about certain aspects of the Parisian art scene, one of which being that it lacks the spark and energy of new things. It’s difficult in a conservative country that holds fine art and culture so close to its sense of identity.
It’s quite strange meeting someone for the first time via skype, I think it’s something to do with the intimacy of being suddenly projected into a stranger’s kitchen and they into your living room. This was how I met Elina Brotherus, we sat in Paris/Helsinki and shared a cup of tea. My intention was obviously for this to be an interview, however it seems like a conversation broke out, the outcome of which being that the questions aren’t particularly well phrased. I’m sure you’ll find the answers very interesting. Please excuse the occasional connection problems.