Post Mortem

-"Ναι.

Λοιπόν.

'Ντάξει.

Τώρα θα πάω να τους τρελάνω.

Μιλάμε για τρελές πωλήσεις, Manager θα με κάνουνε!

Ώπ, πράσινο.

CRASH! KaBOOM!

"

Και κάπως έτσι πέθανα κ. Πέτρο μου.

Τώρα βέβαια, ξέρω πως ο τρόπος που πέθανα λίγη σημασία έχει,

πιότερο μετράει το πώς έζησα, όμως, να, δεν πρόλαβα!

Έτρεχα συνεχώς, να αυξήσω προσόντα, κέρδη, να μη λήξουν προθεσμίες, πίσω από τις γυναίκες, που ποτέ δεν απόλαυσα για πολύ, γιατί πού να κρατήσεις σχέση όταν δεν είσαι εκεί?

Έτσι λοιπόν, ρωτάω, μήπως θα μπορούσατε να μου δώσετε μια δεύτερη ευκαιρία?

Φαντάζομαι πως οι περισσότεροι κλάινε χτυπιούνται, διαφωνούν και καταλήγουν να ζητάνε το ίδιο όμως εγώ έχω λόγο, πώς θα κρίνεις μια ζωή που δεν έζησα?

-Εύκολα,Τέκνο μου, γιατί μόλις γύρισες από τη δεύτερη ευκαιρία σου!

Νέα Χρονιά

Λοιπόν έχω ν αναφέρω πως οποιαδήποτε προσπάθεια πρόβλεψης είναι τραγελαφική.

Ακόμα και όταν τα πράγματα προδιαγράφονται θα 'λεγες, τσουπ! Ο πονηρός θεούλης σου τη φοράει!

Ερωτικά, μαθητικά, υγείες, όλα τα καλούδια και μή ανακατεύονται στο καλειδοσκόπειο της ζωής δημιουργόντας μια ορχήστρα τυχαιότητας που παίζει μονότονα ένα αυτοσχεδιαστικό χαοτικό μοτίβο με κρεσέντα παραδοξότητας και εμάς κάθιδρους, αλαφιασμένους μαέστρους να προσπαθούμε χιλιετίες τώρα είτε να καταλάβουμε το μοτίβο, είτε να ελέγξουμε την ορχήστρα να παίξει αυτό που νομίζουμε ότι θέλουμε, κάτι επίσης ρευστό αλλά και προϊόν της ορχήστρας, κάτι δηλαδη αφ εαυτού παραπλανητικό και απροσδιόριστο, μάταιο αλλά και μοναδικό στόχο της ύπαρξης.

Άρα τι μένει σ' ένα μαέστρο να κάνει απ τη στιγμή που η ορχήστρα του δεν τον ακούει αλλά ούτε κ ο ίδος γνωρίζει αν θα του άρεσε αυτό που θα διέταζε να παίξει?

Είτε προσπαθεί ν αγαπήσει τα όργανα ένα ένα κ εντέλει και το σμείξιμό τους, είτε προσπαθεί ένα ένα να τα διορθώσει, είτε όλα μαζί είτε τέλος λέει πως όλα αυτά με τα όργανα είναι μπαρούφες και πως όποιος θέλει μπορεί κ όλα τ' άλλα είναι δικαιολογίες.

Δεν ξέρω κύριοι αλλά δεν νομίζω πως θα μάθω κιόλας...

Dear Diary,

Dear diary,

FUCK YOU!

So this is how it ends...

So this is how it ends...

Without a word, a moment, even a warning...

She tried to take the chance of that away.

She failed.

I said my goodbyes, my wishes.

But somehow she stole even that.

I feel Empty, Cheated, Used.

Yet somehow right.

And a fool.

So this is how it ends...

The Stinky Rat.

So, the end is nigh, time to rest, that's what you think pushing the wooden door o' the inn.

The room is dimly lit, a candle here and there, 'xcept for that corner table with the three figures engaged in whispering conversation and looking around every once in a while. It ain't a good inn and you know it. But it's the only one, so you'll take it seems to be the owner's answer to your thoughts as the dwarf-barman-inkeeper gives you that look which says: all you got to do is ask honey, and i'll give you what you need.Maybe not the quality i'm after you reply to yourself as you watch him polish a glass with a dirty handkechief.

Hey, wake up kid, what're you here for?
Surprised, you trun and notice the halfling waitress, who gives you a smile and says so?

Well, I'd like a room if that's allright...

Actually, it's more than allright, 'tis great, we just so happen to have a good room empty, head over to Ol' Jamdar and he'll give you the key!

You thank her and approach Jamdar who seems to have overheard your conversation 'cause he pulls out a key with a rune and says, upstairs, third door on your right, can't miss it! 3 copper a day and you get that, i must be loosing it to price that low!

You nod and go get your well deseved sleep.

But...

The Welcome

There's a man with a Fedora, a trenchcoat and a sax by the streetlight.

His eyes are closed but his melody suggests he's seen his share.

His share of life, that is.

The moody blues with the almost musing somehow highlighted "solos" meshes just fine with the sunset.

The setting sun casts a shadow on half of him, the embodiment of all the controversies of his musc and appearence, maybe even his thoughts...

Suddenly, he stops, lets out a whistle and brushes the sweat from his eyebrows.

He notices you.

He smiles, The name's Ivor,kid,welcome to this part of the desert.He goes on to tell you that in this little part of hell, staring that long at a man can bring you trouble faster than the crow flies, you're lucky he was off at his world.

You apologize, and offer your name and some money in return.

He brushes your hand aside, tells you money ain't an issue, if it were, he'd have robbed you blind by now, he'll take the name though, information is power in these lands.Much like everywhere else he adds, almost to himself.

You're tired, and he seems trustworthy as long as he doesn't have more to gain by not being.

So you ask him for a place to stay, your trip was exhausting.

He tells you the Stinky Rat's the place for you,maybe because there's no other inn in town!

You thank him and head along his index finger when he says, like an afterthought while the sax is almost at his lips: take care kid, you're gonna need it.

At last, your journey had ended.

Maybe only started, who knows?

Scumbags....

Deep down dirty music.

Low lights.
Bad to the bone ladies.
Loaded Dice.
The stench of Alchohol.

Sweaty bodies.

A low volume, high voltage ecstasy.

Looks that say too much.

Words that mean too little.

The whole bar is in tatters.

Broken glass populates the floor.

Three men on a dark corner table.

The Scumbags.

They don't care.

Punkt.