time_lock

Sensations

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choking on sweets

part 1

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stewart


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daniel

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words.
fucking words.
some people love words. they love putting them nicely in a pile on the floor and then organising them into something fancy and shiny and clever and they call it sentences, like death sentence.
little nice letters form a monster with a meaning - you could simply go mad only realising this.

as much as a living creature can hate words, he did.

first of all, words were treacherous. whatever you say or write - they turn out to mean the oppoisite, and nobody in the bloody world believes it's them, not you.
secondly, you could never be in control. they do what they want, they burst out of your mouth like vomit and you just feel that you've had enough.

so he did really in fact hate words.
do you hate anything? spiders, maybe? or flowers? or the smell of coffee?
now imagine you conciously go to college to study it, and then you go on and work with it for ten years of your life. miserable? why would you do that to yourself?

well, he did it, because, of all things, there was only one he hated more than words. guess what.
people. human kind. inhabitants of the planet.
and he, well, he had enough logic to make a genius conclusion - he was one of them.




photo by hedi slimane

He stood at the doors of the pub smoking. His hands and nose were extremely cold, he opened his mouth and didn’t know where exactly the smoke stopped and his breath began. It was frosty and dark, and so amazingly peaceful, there was something poetic in the air, or was it just the amount of spirits he consumed?
A company of giggling guys fell out of the pub and a wave of music and voices broke from the doors and washed over him, making him realize how bloody loud it was inside – and how much he didn’t want to go back, even being practically frozen to death.
So he wandered down the street to the tube, thinking over two topics at a time: 1 - how incredibly impolite he was, leaving his best mate with two boring chicks and a pint of Becks; 2 – how he wanted to get home quickly, fall into his improvised sofa that was just a pile of cushions really, but he didn’t mind. Then he’d find his fags, smoke one or two, and then he’ll fall asleep.
When he was running down the spiral staircase of the tube station, he suddenly realized that his plan could – and most probably would – be broken by his best mate, who, by now must be fucking sick of listening to the girls’ stories of their college life. He fished his phone out of the jeans pocket and turned it off. His mate will be angry at first, but then he’ll start to worry – he himself knew the feeling you get when someone disappears and their phone’s turned off – he’d probably think he was dead. “I bloody well could be dead, yeah” – he thought falling down on a sit in the train and smiling peacefully.

- do you ever wake up and just want something?
- every day of my life

never to be happy with what you got - it takes some forces.
you know you're a useless person when you wake up and don't want anything you don't have.

he was absolutely sure and said it to pretty much everyone he met, somewhere between the 3rd and the 6th shot, he always said it.

if you wake up and you don't wish to go somewhere on the opposite side of the planet, or even the far end of the city would do, if you don't wish to meet someone new, someone you heard about or you didn't, if you don't wish to try on new shoes, listen to a new song or have a new cocktail, - he said, - just leave me alone.


he was most afraid of becoming old, boring, and, yes, lonely, he hated to see old lonely people, beacuse he saw some kind of himself in them.


photo by hedi slimane

he was draped in black. black scarf, black coat, black jeans, black shirt and high black leather boots.
it’s not like he felt uncomfortable, he just didn’t feel comfortable. and he saw some girl making her way between the tables, looking at him, all dancing eyes and a cheeky smile – he didn’t like that. modern girls with their fake courage and fake lashes made him sick.

he was already thinking of a plan to escape as quickly as possible.

the girl was already talking to him for a few minutes and he was automatically nodding. she asked for his name – and he told her – automatically as well. he didn’t even register if she said hers. he was making a huge progress in escaping the world.
she was batting her eyelashes and telling him something in an excited voice. he was smoking and silently comparing two evils – raging weather outside and the talking machine that was now sitting in front of him.
god, calling someone a talking machine, even in his thoughts – how more snobbish can he get? he was most definitely going to burn in hell.
the weather had won, so he interrupted the girl – which was rude, but some things just have to, don’t they? – stood up and left.

the wind was wild but it started to snow in such an innocent way that it felt stupid to get the cab to take him four blocks to his house.

but, honestly, he was in a big pile of shit. no need to invent sophisticated idioms in his situation – everything was as shit as it gets, and shit was the only right word to describe it. so he usually tried to chase this thought out of his mind.

he stood in front of the mirror looking at his own reflection and thinking, how on earth, whoever brought him up was thinking he was going to live in this world, when the only thing he understood in his childhood was that he was a little beautiful boy-genius, and everyone else were stupid fuckers.
though it was really true, wasn’t it?

he took a deep drag from his cigarette and blew the smoke into the mirror.



photo by hedi slimane

Let’s get older, let’s get wiser, so you can call me, and I’ll answer, and I’ll say "Dear I was just thinking of you" and we’ll laugh like just like we used to.


another cigarette - another thought. sometimes there is only one thing you can do when the world is falling apart. that is dancing.



photo by hedi slimane

sometimes you wake up and you wish you hadn't.
sharp lights cutting through sleepy mind always bring some shit memroies with them - and that's if you're lucky. if you're not you'll see someone you wish wasn't there, or hear something that would make your mind bleed.

he always wished he had something clever inside him - something that would make him wake up at the same place every morning - he'd want this to be his flat - wherever he fell asleep.
and he'd feel much better if his dreams would leave reality alone and stop curling around it, fucking up his senses and making the world as intangible as it was when he was 14.


photo by hedi slimane

whatever that was - that was bad
fall was the season that was destroying everything
it wasn't a proper season - you don't feel you bloodcells disappear in summer or spring, do you?
winter was even worse, and as it was so close he pretended not to know it was coming


photo by hedi slimane

do you remember how we fell asleep on the bathroom floor?
he leaned against the wall, smirking.
not the best situation, nothing to be so cheerfull about, clearly: toilet floor, sick, sharp lights coming from a tiny window practically on the ceiling, dirty blue tiles on the walls, cold floor freezing throw the jeans, then finding out you're wearing nothing but these stupid jeans and a sock, so fucking cold, but you can't leave the bathroom, can you? what if you throw up again?
he thinks he wants to be able to control himself, considerng aclohol, obviously, but somewhere at the backyard of his mind he realizes he has some kind of an unexplainable pleasure - overdoing different stuff, that is. drinking till he finds himself in the toilet wearing one sock and jeans, feeling skin nearly freezing to the wall behind his back, his insides curling, throwing up, falling asleep, waking up with his head taking up half of the bathroom, remembering song lyrics about being far too drunk, smirking, realising his legs are numb.
getting to the shower and managing himself in. amazing thing about water and showers - they make you feel better while water is pouring down at your head and shoulders and collar bone - but as soon as you get out and put your clothes on - you're as sick and broken and drunk as you were just minutes ago.
sits back down. throws up. leans on the wall. questions of the "when-is-it-going-to-end" type swirling in his head.
he knows it's soon.
you usually feel better by 8 am.
actually, good enough to go to sleep.

kneel to the toilet, and the morning's clean light pours in through the window
smirks again. he feels smart recollecting all the suitable lyrics from his drunken mind.

draws the curtains and sinks into the matress. thinks of buying a proper bed. of not drinking more than he can physically bear. of waking up.

it is obvious you just can't go to bed before the alohol wears out






photo by hedi slimane

it is a really strange feeling, when you realise that you've lost all the pins you used to wear in the times you thought you were punk and finding yourself dreaming of balenciaga boots, a burberry coat or a gucci handbag


photo by hedi slimane