mana

He puts down the words in his diary and when there are no more words to write, he fires up a smoke, throws the diary under his bed, hits the power button on his HiFi system, lies down and enjoys the beautiful sounds of his favorite band, Ocean Colour Scene. A kind of lazy voice fades out and in comes the guitar solo he's been waiting for. As he inhales the last microgram of nicotine, a thought hits him in the head and the spinal column bends like a banana. What's up with this world, he wonders, gets up from his bed, jumps and touches the ceiling with his bare hand.

High five!

It's been a month or so. Has it really been that long? How sure can one be of anything? He pulls his diary out from under his bed to find the answers. Yup, a month.

Time sure flies when you're young and jerking off.

The last track on the album has just faded out, he pushes the Eject button and puts the CD back in its cover. He stares at the cover for a while, says the title out loud a couple of times for the sake of his own entertainment. A Hyperactive Workout for the Flying Squad. He smiles, probably because the title appeals to him for some reason. His cell phone falderols and he pushes the appropriate button and answers the call. It's absolutely nobody.

The world is only a phone call away.

In his diary he scribbles down a few words of no importance before his eyes close and he enters a childish dream.

If you only believe.

The next morning he wakes up to a bullshit world that has forgotten all about him. Not true. He wakes up to a bullshit world that doesn't even know he exists, never has, never will. No worries, he won't slit his throat. Instead he pulls down his trousers and makes time fly.

Repeat.


Hey It's my birthday.