This is Sindy, at Warp Speed 5

:o

What's this? Writing every other day. It is truly most remarkable.

Well, usually I feel like writing after having read something, y'know. Now I just roll a cigar round'n'round because my mind has not absorbed any literary gem in ever so long, the Vampire Lestat being the last truly most luscious thing I digested. Though the warmth from it bubbled through my system for days after, the lack of a suitable nutrient from that time on has left me flailing miserably. Back to me and my ideas, and the exhausting task of putting them down. Little sparks of fairy dust flying off, witherign and dissolving in the wind. Disolving.

As numbers shoot up and down my screen, it is not so rare an occassion that I might sit back and twiddle my thumbs, vainly protecting them from the dear Devil. After all, what is there to do now but wait. Wait and flood my screen with a barrage of meaningless words, in the neverending quest of self-definition.

You don't understand me. Phaw! I don't understand me. Understanding is oooooover-rated.

I'm having a mildly destructive week at work really. Keep breakign things. Blamelessly. Smile.

:-)

How obliging.

And now (*lock fingers, palms outwards, push so that you hear your phalanxes pop, like some maestro, pianist*) for a story. Yes that was phalanxes. P'raps it was phalanges. P'raps not. My memory... it fails me. Ever so often. Ever so rarely.

(*clear throat Mulan style - Ping*)

Like all stories this story needs a setting. And the setting is this. A barbers shop, lacking a quartet. Quaint swirly red-white thing hovering above the door, that staple of barbers, the name of which I forget.

What little sunlight there is filters through the unblocked portion of the windows. Where it isn't stopped by the black open sign, a shockingly fair price list, and the customary phtographs of people displaying hairstyles they couldn't possibly have obtained from this establishment.

Opening the door brings that smell of perfume mixed with antiseptic rushing to flood your senses. A great deal more agreeable than the undiluted formula used by most hospitals. A fellow ( because he could only be a 'fellow', this most distinguished sort of gentleman ) sits on two of the four waiting chairs, with their faded peach covering. Curly black hair, and a leather jacket of the sort that is the leather jacket, with an air of European-ness about him. He plays with a child. Blonde, girl, presumably his daughter. It lends a certain authenticity to the image.

The coats once taken hang one after the other in a stately row, as the Greek, for he could only be Greek, (perhaps Cypriot?) barber guides the next innocent towards his chair. Here he practises his craft, in front of the giant mirror adorned with pictures of his home, and his family.

If only the lights were a little more dim, one might be inclined to think it's the scene from an old movie. The perfect front. For the mafia. Where they can keep an eye on their protected businesses, from the safety and comfort of a self-run establishment such as this. What a perfect setup. Too perfect. Perfect enough to lose oneself in, to the extent that the cry of alarm that should come as the jagged blades comes swooping down is lost. And then it is too late.

The damage done, all that is left is something to reflect upon. But it is only hair. It grows back.

It's all a part, big or small, of the grand adventure.

And they lived happily ever after.

^_^

Hell March

Isn't that title a week or so early?

Hardly. For it refers not to any predictive powers I may or may not have (*he shifts uncomfortably in his seat at this point*) but more to do with that most memorable of tunes.

You never quite struck me as the Black Sabbath type. And if it is a song, it does sound most agressive.

What little can be explained in (*look at watch*) eight minutes. But it is a song I have recovered most recently, back from the time when a sweet piece of software made its way into my domain, and onto my cake. The general poise is much the same today. Lower incisors leaving gashes in the upper ones. Molars locked together like disjointed building blocks. Facial muscles relaxed and oblivious as a flurry of thoughts passes from one end of the being to the other. The occassional laugh, a short 'Ha' breaks the monotony. It only takes a short 'Ha', to be transmitted as a 'looool'.

I'm only smiling on the outside, this grin is only skin deep.
I'm crying on the inside, won't you join me for a weep.

Go on. Giggle deliriously. Think of it as a challenge. (*A look that is almost hungry now, ravenous wolves as they approach a prey near death - Almost*)

If you had four minutes to reflect upon any little oddity in life, which one would you pick.

There's a chimney. I can see it everyday. Traditional, amongst the rooftops of London. Just how a chimney should be. But this one has an orb of some sort. The word orb just being fancy for a spherical object, and hardly captivating in a fantastical sense. But it continues to spin. A silver sphere with discernible ridges, and every day I see it spinning away in earnest, with or without the gentle touch of the wind. And when the sun makes its rare appearance, it comes off in a sharp beam, thrown wildly around as my orb spins on oblivious to the shadows it might cast. I oft wonder what it does there, and perhaps one day I might ask one who may know. But that, then, shall be the end of yet another mystery.

Time flies like the wind. fruit flies like bananas

I need to see a rainbow
And I need to see a shooting star
For it has been too long
Since I have seen either

Tut

Why would you say that?

Because it's not the same as happiness. There's too much in this world for anyone to ever be contented. Where would you go from there?

Being contented sucks

In those little spaces

I was a man of principles.
I try to be a man of principles.
But principles make for a slippery rope with which to climb up life.
I am a man of plans.
Unmade, impossible plans.
And I needs someone to carry them out.
For me.