Pretzels looped in love heart shapes. Why can’t these thoughts leave me be? Haunting like the cat swarming round my legs. She wants cheese. She thinks she wants cheese, but actually she wants what’s at the centre of the pretzel love hearts. Remember the pretzel letters in Assel, Berlin? He thought there was a secret message but they expressed only nonesense. She’s restless. A nocturne disgruntled by the daily routine. The need to do the whole fucking thing again tomorrow. Same idiosyncratic punk routine. Neither agent of rebellion nor domesticated success. The bacon snacks, like artificial pork scratchings. So horribly brilliant and brilliantly horrible.
Can open. Worms everywhere.
I must’ve said that before but can’t find the place. Searching the minature maze for a face that rests its nose close to the ground. It fills the space between tiny hedges & makes my stomach ache with neither hunger nor love. Constantly lost between the past and the future, not realising that THIS IS IT.