Slow burn in my chest and a harmless warmth spreads. Balls of wet rice jammed inside a sleek plastic container. I look down and towards the container that can still contain and remain sealed and it doesn’t move and a German madman is blowing his crooked trumpet in my eardrums and I am almost dizzy and falling down but I try to hold on to the arms of my chair as I listen to the screams of dissatisafaction and the clouds of gloom gather and rain and rain on everything outside and submerge everything including roads and ants and dirty pigs and whatnot. I take another sip of the golden tumbler syrup and wait for a knock on my front door. But no knock. Has it been forgotten that I am to be visited? I do not think so. There must be a knock. Now. Or now. Soon. Tonight. Tonight’s knock on my door and it cannot be forgotten. In dark, the reflection is seen in a still gathering of rainwater that slipped into my home through the backdoor that leads to the balcony that I do not know is how much wet and smelling of foul things. I want to step outside but I cannot. There’s stuff to buy and cigarettes to smoke and a whole lot of rotten vegetables to throw outside but nothing is happening and the German madman has fallen quiet and now is some American hopeless brother of piss pissing out of his mouth and his albums are selling record high and I cannot believe that something like this is happening and happens quite regularly. Like always, some prick is at the top of the world and the good ones are crouching in some corner with their own bloody asses crammed inside their own mouths and they are preparing diligently each day in giving up altogether, hoping it all ends soon.
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