Bang! Bang!

 The door breathes open on its hinges, a soft complaint swallowed by the thick, unmoving air. Inside, the house feels abandoned by warmth, as though even the walls have given up trying to remember what comfort once meant. The smell reaches you first—stale tobacco clinging to the curtains, old smoke ground into the fabric of the place, layered over something sour: damp clothes left too long, skin unwashed, time itself decaying in corners.

You step in anyway.

The carpet underfoot is ancient, its fibers flattened by years of footsteps that led nowhere better. It exhales dust with every careful shift of your weight. Somewhere deeper in the house, a pipe ticks faintly, or perhaps it’s just the sound of the cold settling in. The windows are blind with condensation, opaque to the outside world, as if this place has sealed itself off deliberately.

You already know you shouldn’t be here.

The lump hammer feels heavier now, not in your hand but in your mind, its purpose swelling with each step you take down the narrow hallway. A door stands ahead—ajar, just slightly—spilling a thin blade of jaundiced streetlight across the floorboards. It cuts through the darkness like a warning you choose not to read.

You pause.

Listen.

Nothing but breathing.

Two rhythms, uneven but deep, tangled together in sleep. The kind of sleep that comes from exhaustion, not peace. The kind that trusts too easily in the idea that the night will pass without incident.

You push the door wider.

Slowly.

Gently.

Because you don’t want to wake them.

Not yet.

The room greets you with the same suffocating neglect. The bed is unmade, sheets twisted and stained, bodies half-covered, half-exposed to the cold. The air is thick, humid with breath and the residue of lives lived without care. Curtains barely cling to the window, allowing the streetlamp to paint everything in a sickly orange glow.

They don’t stir.

They don’t know.

You stand there, watching, the hammer hanging at your side. There’s a moment—just one—where the world seems to hold itself still. A moment where something inside you hesitates, presses faintly against the path you’ve chosen.

This is where you should have turned.

This is where you should have stepped back into the hallway, eased the door shut, and let the night swallow your presence whole. Left them to their dreams, to their small, fragile existence, untouched by whatever darkness you carry with you.

This is where you should have fled.

But you didn’t, did you?

No.

You did not.

Say Your Prayers - I'm Coming Up Your Stairs

 

     Not the polished kind you recite in daylight, not the tidy sentences you learned as a child, at the boy scouts, but the raw ones—the ones that snag in your throat and scrape on the way out. The kind you whisper when the house feels too quiet, when silence has weight, when the dark seems to lean in and listen.

I’m coming up your stairs.

Step by step, slow enough that you question it. Was that real? Was that the settling of old wood, or something deliberate—measured, patient? You lie there, eyes open, fixed on the ceiling you know so well, suddenly foreign. Your body refuses to move, as if it understands something your mind hasn’t caught up with yet.

Were you thinking that?

That something was wrong long before the first creak. That the night had a different texture, thicker somehow. That your thoughts weren’t entirely your own—that they’d been nudged, guided toward this moment.

Did you say it out loud?

Because sometimes fear escapes before we can contain it. A word, a breath, a half-formed question slipping into the dark. And the dark… it answers. Not in language, not in anything you can repeat, but in presence. In the way the air changes, like a held breath just behind you.

Can you hear it?

Your breathing. No—your breast heaving, sharp and shallow, betraying you. Each inhale louder than the last, each exhale a signal. You try to quiet it, to swallow it down, but panic has its own rhythm. It drums in your ears, a pulse that isn’t entirely yours.

And beneath it—something else.

A second sound.

Not as frantic. Not as human.

How did I know where you were sleeping?

That’s the question, isn’t it? The one that coils around all the others. Because it suggests something worse than chance. Worse than intrusion.

It suggests I’ve been here before.

Maybe I stood at the foot of your bed last night, watching the rise and fall of your chest, learning the cadence of your dreams. Maybe I traced the outline of your room in the dark, memorizing every shadow, every place you might try to hide.

Maybe you felt it then, too—that faint unease, like being observed from just beyond sight. And maybe you dismissed it. Turned over. Closed your eyes tighter.

We always do.

Another step.

Closer now.

The stairs don’t creak anymore. Funny, that. As if the house has decided to help me. As if it’s tired of pretending this is just another night.

You hold your breath.

But it’s too late for silence.

I already know the sound of you.

 

Grey Stones

 The Quiet Machinery of Madness

The road to the asylum is barely a road at all now—just a scar of gravel and weeds that leads nowhere anyone sane would choose to go. The building rises from the earth like something that was never meant to be abandoned, only paused. Grey stone, heavy and unmoving, holds the memory of every voice that ever echoed inside it.

Up close, the paint peels in long, curling strips, like the skin of something trying to shed itself and failing. The windows are blind with dust. No light escapes, and none seems welcome.

Inside, the air is still—too still. Not silent. Never silent.

There are beds in long rows, naked iron frames with thin, decayed mattresses sagging in the middle, as if they still remember the shape of bodies that once lay there. Restraints hang loose from rusted rails. You can almost hear the shift of metal, the restless turning of someone who has long since gone.

A ledger lies open on a desk in the admitting room. Patient records, brittle with age. Names written in careful ink. Diagnoses that read less like medicine and more like judgement.

Melancholia.

Hysteria.

Unruly thoughts.

Excessive imagination.

Someone has scrawled over the margins in frantic loops of charcoal. Words layered upon words until they collapse into darkness. Pages torn. Faces drawn again and again—eyes too wide, mouths stretched into shapes that do not belong to human expression.

The art of the tortured soul is everywhere. On walls, on floors, scratched into wood, pressed into paper. It is not decoration. It is evidence. A record of minds trying to escape themselves.

Further in, the corridors narrow.

There is a room where the machines once lived. Industrial. Clinical. Necessary, they would have said. The tumble dryer still stands against the wall—too large, too heavy, its circular mouth gaping open like it is waiting to be fed.

Inside, something once turned that should never have been placed there.

They found the body days later, they say. Folded into itself in a way no living person could arrange. The report called it an accident. The walls, if they could speak, would disagree.

Beyond that room, the air changes.

It carries something softer. Sadder.

A single teddy bear sits in the corner of a narrow cell. One eye missing. Fur worn thin from hands that must have clung to it long after comfort stopped working. It has been left carefully, not dropped. As if someone meant to come back.

No one did.

And still, the sounds persist.

Not loud. Never loud.

A sigh from behind a locked door that no longer exists. A cry that fades before it fully forms. The shuffle of bare feet along corridors that are now empty. Madness does not leave when the building is abandoned—it settles deeper, becomes part of the walls, the floors, the air itself.

At the far end lies the mortuary steps.

They descend into coldness. Into finality.

This is where the journey ended for many, though it never truly felt like an end. Only another form of silence. The kind that presses in on you, heavy and absolute.

Standing there, you begin to understand something unsettling:

Insanity was never confined to those who were kept here.

It lived in the systems that named it.

In the hands that restrained it.

In the quiet decisions that no one questioned.

And perhaps, most disturbingly..

It lingers still, waiting in places like this, patient and undisturbed, for someone to listen closely enough to hear it breathe. 

He is still here, you can feel his presence. 

The blood, still oozing from his curled lip..

The nightmare (...) It doesn't end.

Jackpot!

 The candle was already burning when I noticed it.

Not brightly—nothing dramatic, no roaring flame of revelation—but low, stubborn, and quietly consuming itself somewhere deep inside the corridors of my mind. A thin wick holding on. A small pool of melted wax gathering beneath it, like time made visible.

“To you, aficionado,” I sometimes think, addressing that inner voice that speaks with confidence I don’t quite trust. The one that dresses uncertainty in bravado. The one that keeps me performing even when I’m alone. It whispers that everything is under control, that the flicker is intentional, artistic even.

But I know better.

Because when the candle burns low, it doesn’t ask permission.

It changes the air.

Thoughts begin to stretch and warp, like shadows cast too long against a wall. Focus slips—not all at once, but in subtle fractures. One moment you’re steady, the next you’re chasing fragments of ideas that refuse to settle. A consciousness explosion, not outwardly visible, but internally deafening. Everything moving, everything shifting, nothing quite landing.

And still, you try to keep your mind in motion.

You pace mentally. You push forward. You convince yourself that movement equals control. That if you just keep thinking, keep analyzing, keep going, the flame won’t die out—or worse, won’t reveal how close it is to doing so.

But the candle doesn’t care about your effort.

It burns according to what it has left.

And that’s the quiet truth most of us avoid: sometimes the struggle isn’t about losing control—it’s about running on what’s nearly gone.

There’s a peculiar vulnerability in that space. You start questioning things you normally wouldn’t. Your confidence thins. Even your sense of self can feel like it’s flickering alongside that flame. You ask yourself:

Is this exhaustion, or is this who I really am underneath everything?

Is there any reason to remain exactly as I’ve been?

The bravado voice will rush in here. It always does. It will tell you to stand tall, to keep up appearances, to not let the flame’s weakness define you.

But maybe—just maybe—that voice is part of the problem.

Because what if the candle burning low isn’t a failure?

What if it’s a signal?

A quiet insistence that something needs to change—not in a dramatic, life-altering way, but in the small, honest ways we often ignore. Rest. Reflection. Letting the mind stop moving for once, instead of forcing it forward like a machine that’s already overheating.

We’re taught to fear the dimming. To associate it with weakness, with losing momentum, with becoming less.

But a candle burning low isn’t the end of light.

It’s a moment of truth.

You can keep pretending the flame is as strong as ever. You can keep performing for that inner aficionado, feeding the illusion of control.

Or you can sit with it.

Watch it flicker.

Acknowledge what’s left (...) and what isn’t.

Because sometimes, the most honest question isn’t “How do I keep going?”

It’s:

Why am I trying so hard not to pause?

And in that pause—uncomfortable, unfamiliar, but real—you might find that the flame doesn’t go out after all.

It steadies.

Not brighter. Not louder.

Just… truer.

So what happened.  What happened that night?

The hammer falling on the sleeping bed, the horror,  the sounds of hell.. In a small house not far from you.

The son of the devil himself,  covering his tracks.

And now we sleep. 

But does he sleep?

No..

The Road by the Bay

 

     The bar closed slowly that night, the way coastal bars often do—reluctantly. Laughter faded in uneven waves, glasses were stacked behind the counter, and the last conversations drifted out into the salt-damp air.

She left a little after midnight.

Her moped sputtered to life outside the bar, its small engine buzzing softly against the stillness of the sleeping village. She wrapped her jacket tighter around herself, glanced once toward the dark water beyond the rocks, and pulled onto the narrow dirt track that curved along the bay.

It was a lonely road.

On one side, jagged rocks fell toward the sea. On the other, low scrub and shadows stretched back toward empty land. The moon hung thin and pale, barely lighting the path ahead. The only sound was the moped’s engine and the slow rhythm of waves brushing the stones.

Somewhere along that track, a man stood waiting in the darkness.

Later, investigators would say he stepped from the shadows and raised a hand, signaling for her to stop. He told police he had asked her for a cigarette. It was a small, ordinary request—the kind strangers make every day. But not on deserted dark roads late at night.

But the night turned violent.

He attacked her there beside the lonely road. When he was finished, he picked up a rock, smashing it into her head, he then dragged her toward the water and pushed her into the bay.

By morning she was discovered floating among the rocks.

Face up.

Her eyes open to the sky.

The sea moved gently around her, the tide rocking her body as if it could not quite decide whether to claim her or return her to the shore. The early fishermen who saw her first said the water was calm that morning, eerily calm, as though the night had swallowed its own secret.

The investigation moved quickly. A local black man who had been hiding along the road was arrested and later, under duress confessed. In court he told the story of how he stopped the moped, asked for the cigarette, and what happened afterward. He had only wanted sex, he hadn't meant to kill her.

He was convicted of murder and sentenced to hang.

Yet one small detail of that night has always lingered in the background, like a quiet footnote in a much darker story.

Just two minutes away from the bar where she had her last drink stood a modest hotel. Its windows faced the same rocky bay where the waves carried her body until dawn.

Inside that hotel, in a room overlooking the water, sat Dr. Jimmy’s father. He was chain-smoking nervously. He was rocking back and forth in his seat, he had been in the bar that night, he had been speaking, laughing, and drinking with the young, dark haired attractive woman. Now she was dead, her skull crushed, her beautiful face destroyed. 

The moped’s engine, the confrontation in the shadows, the splash in the dark water.. Her desperate pleas for her life.. "No, please Jimmy no..."

History often feels distant and dramatic when we read about it later.

But in reality, it happens close by.

Sometimes at home.

Yes, sometimes.

From Locked Rooms to Open Skies

  Escaping a Difficult Beginning..

Some people begin life with a safety net. Others begin with walls.

A difficult upbringing has a way of shaping how a person sees the world. When parents are irresponsible, absent, or lost in their own struggles, a child learns very early that stability is something they must build themselves. Instead of guidance, there is confusion. Instead of safety, there is uncertainty. And instead of trust, there is often a quiet fear that follows you into adulthood.

For many years, I carried that fear with me.

One of the strange remnants of my childhood was a deep discomfort with locked rooms. Closed doors, small spaces without an easy exit — they made me uneasy in ways that were hard to explain. It wasn’t just about physical space. It was about the feeling of being trapped, of having no control over what might happen next.

Children raised in chaos often grow up searching for freedom.

But freedom does not always come from changing your location or your circumstances. Sometimes it begins in the mind.

The biggest journey I have taken in my life has been a mental one — moving upward from the patterns I inherited. I had to learn that the way I was raised did not have to define who I became. The habits, fears, and sadness that were passed down to me were not permanent.

For a long time, depression felt like a shadow that followed everything I did. It whispered that happiness belonged to other people — people who had easier beginnings, stronger families, clearer paths.

But slowly, something changed.

I began to understand that happiness doesn’t have to be dramatic. It doesn’t have to look like wealth, status, or a perfect life. Sometimes happiness is incredibly simple.

It is waking up and feeling calm.

It is walking outside and breathing fresh air.

It is having a small routine that belongs entirely to you.

It is realizing that the chaos of your past no longer controls your present.

A simple lifestyle became my form of freedom. When you grow up with instability, simplicity becomes precious. A quiet home. A cup of coffee in the morning. A walk in the afternoon. These small things carry a kind of peace that once felt impossible.

Healing did not happen all at once. It happened slowly — through small realizations, small choices, and small acts of kindness toward myself.

The locked rooms that once existed in my mind began to open.

And beyond those doors, I discovered something unexpected: a life that may not be perfect, but is truly my own.

Escaping a difficult beginning is not about erasing the past. It is about rising above it — mentally, emotionally, and spiritually.

The past built the walls.

But we still hold the key.

A tale told by an idiot, signifying nothing

You don't know about existential despair?

I have a major existential crisis once every 21 years. And minor one's, once every 12 months. So I do know yes.

These occurrences are written into our blueprints at birth unfortunately.

This planet is the biggest lunatic asylum in the universe. Do you know that?

Who said that?

Me, just now.

No. What you said, that the Earth is the largest lunatic asylum in the universe. I think it was a quote. Wolfgang somebody or other?

Perhaps.

At this point, it is almost entirely too late to return. We shall get our comeuppance. 

Yes my darling, but that may be the lesser of the grief we may have to endure.

Show your emotion, and show something else too, incase you disappear beneath the large Oak tree. 

Oh yes! We must look our best as we are dragged before the lions!

We can handle this best, by not looking into the mirror. Staying focused. Look ahead only, not backwards or sidewards, and certainly not into the mrror, as that is where we shall fall, gazing upon our reflections, like Narcissus before he fell into the lake and drowned.

It doesn't matter where we go, or how we get there. There will certainly be a roller coaster on the horizon. 

Or a Merry -go- round.

I prefer the roller coaster, merry- go- rounds are so boring. Repetitive.

I can't be sure who the living are anymore. When the entire world seems out to harm you. Who do you trust?

 People come and go, but it is only you who is here to stay. So you trust yourself.

Plain, honest words, are usually unavailable in the moment. But I hear them.

I really would prefer to forget, forget all of this, but that requires the magic of rage.

And so there is no forgetting, because there is no rage.

Wait! So rage is the key here darling... Think about the things Dr Jimmy has allegedly done, he must have been enraged to use such brutal force. So he doesn't remember what he's done?

Oh, he remembers what he's done alright. He would choose to forget, but the psyche isn't so kind. The restless mind is a tortured mind. He suffers with every breath.

Especially now he knows his secret really isn't a secret any longer.

He will be drinking from the bottle of Asphodel Meadow's.

That implies he's no longer with us?

Oh, he's with us.

One Day The Truth's Will Out

 Scream and shout like you won the lottery! Because you know? Maybe you have. Do you long to live, or are you longing to meet with your maker? One life, no returns remember?

Something weird may happen to save us, from us.

No it won't. I attract an entirely different energy. I'm mutable, you are fixed. I know when a change is coming whereas you choose to ignore it!

You can master the craft of anything.

So could you, if you gave it time.

You were born selfish.

I was born free. I am the woman who lay alone for many midnight's. You have never.

Leave your thoughts behind, at the bottom of a drink.

Regardless. They will return tomorrow, at midnight precisely.

Are you being tricked?

Possibly, a new name on my contacts from out of the blue. He may be tricking me into giving out my innermost thoughts. Attempting to discover who it is that I actually am.  And so I tell him my dreams, my nightmare's, wrapped up as reality, that's enough to confuse the most steadfast.

Today I'm cold. Tomorrow I will be too hot. Maybe, I don't know.

That is the problem. You have never discovered the identity of YOU. I mean, you could do nothing and see what happens, but that isn't how I roll.

Who is it that is looking and listening?

The mirror darling, it's only the mirror.

No intruders?

No.

Okay.

Anyhow, we won't catch them once they're gone.

Yes, and well one day we shall visit their room, see how they like it.

We are going to be shredded until we look like lace.

And this is why we can't make with our hands what they are made of.

Distorting Nostalgia

That may not be Ambergris.

I know, but it may be useful. A gate.

Maybe it's just ice.

Well I'm not going to look at it, I'm just going to put it into my mouth.

Are we getting to the end of this mystery?

What mystery? It's no mystery to me.

Don't scare people unless you need to, like I do.

See that drunken bum in the street? He's still someone's father.

Unfortunately true.

But not my Father, my Father stays dead.

Please tell me, please predict whether this may or may not happen again.

It will never happen again, the hands of the clock move forwards not in reverse. So take notes.

Writing it didn't happen, doesn't really count does it? Because it did. Happen.

I guess this is as close to the promised land as our dying flesh will come.

Venice is sinking. I always thought I'd die here, I don't know why. There's worse places I think.

Not today you won't die.

How do you know?

Because it's never too late to fill our sails.

To know the truth, knowing that the truth is always overrated.

Well we must deviate to get there, always we must deviate. There is more than one way of proceeding.

What? Through miles of fallen pathways and dead creatures? What's the point?

Bitch. Let's make it through this World together.

Okay okay, maybe I think about it. But in the dark, which one is talking?

I think you know.

I think I do. 

Let them talk.

The bombs will still fall anywhay huh?

We were never really born, we will never really die. Nothing really matters.

Just take care of me, one way or another.

I promise.

No promises, please. Just do.

You will never find the truth, but maybe you will find a truth. God I love you, I have fallen in love with you.

This could all be avoided with a little therapy. This love nonsense!

ECT? 

Yes, one more trip to Belle Vue and that's where we headed. The ECT chair.

I'm okay with that, we didn't try it out yet.

As long as it doesn't hurt.

I wonder why the guy hanged himself at Grand Central?

Attention.

Brutal.

True though.

Let's play at all the treatments, we don't want to become serial killers!

No, that's a special kind of fucked up we aren't familiar with.

A tiny prick of electricity when the brain doesn't work right. It might have helped.

But it didn't happen, so people died. Robbed of their future. For what? Some asshole who felt slighted?

And took it out on the innocent.

Give me some of that.. What is it?

MDMA.

Wow.

Prescription honey. And exactly what it takes to cure PTSD.

Here Is Not The Problem

Elephant's bear grudges, they hide in the tree's, waiting, piston's pumping.

I don't bear grudges, I just hate the fucking lot. I wish I could be mean. Like really fucking mean. 

Mean isn't your aura, you're too clean.

You?

I don't get mean, I get even - eventually. And never in a polite way.

I want to be like you.

A fucking fire spewing bitching bastard? No, you really don't. I remain silent for an age, and then I go too far.

How far is too far?

Not far enough some may say.

You look real trashy under that trench coat..

Keep looking. There is where you can go nowhere, faster than you ever dreamed possible.

Do you sleep with your door open?

I sleep with my mind open.

I want to be like you, I didn't ever meet anyone quite like you.

And thankfully, you are unlikely to ever again.

The Queen with no crown.

Who love's the stench of the past.

I love your frenzy, your heat. It intoxicates me.

Like fine wine or a decent poison? Cyanide in a C - cup.

 You are a Class A narcotic.

I'm a child of Neptune. This is our normal.

The High Priestess, black majik in black french knickers.

 I cannot tarry any longer. I am waiting for an answer to my next step, it will come from the astral plane.

Whereas I will sit here waiting, in deep shit, with my principles.

Ah! the thing I lack!

You do.

Give me your heart.

Your soul is my sun, but I don't ever give away my heart.  I have tasks to complete before we fall into the stars.

There is always Nemesis.

I am Nemesis. 

Let's go on a break together.

Yes, a psychotic break! 

Funny. Everything is a fucking joke with you.

My genetic pool runs deep with madness. I suffered for years, within a family riddled with bipolar type schizoaffective disorders. They thought they were normal.

But you escaped.

I did, but the trauma persists.

I will protect you.

I don't need protection, I need a fucking flame thrower! Burn the past to the ground, reduce it to ashes!

Held within the arms of lunacy. No one to rely on.

Only briefly, and so I am forever grateful of that. Grateful to that young girl who had the balls to run away into the night! I rely on myself!

We are both in pain, you as the abandoned child, me as the lonely child.

We need to forgive them, they didn't know anything better. Those two children.. Did you ever speak to your inner child?

No, when he comes I send him away.

Same. As if it were their fault.

              I don't love you.

              I never wanted you as a child.

              I don't care about you.

Do we see each other, or are we looking in a mirror?

There are benefits to the journey we both embarked on. We are independent, we are strong, we move without constant interference. Transition brings opportunity as well as loss.

Acceptance. It's the key. but there are still issues I'm drawn into that simply must be resolved.

Right the wrongs. Of the weak and silenced.

Suicide is always on my back burner.

Not mine, a Roganjosh is on mine. And anyhow, I found your gun and hid it.

I have plenty of other's.

And here is the shift, me protecting you. Against yourself!

Nemesis, the evener of chance, and the big sister of anything that counts.

....And Look Under The Stone's!

Do you think ghost's die and come back as bodies?

Interesting thought.

Do what you should do, so as not to have regrets. Every other day I hear of a friend or relative moving to a heavenly abode and reflect on when will the bell toll for me.

Morbid.

Not really, but you need to keep your Karma clean. Face death as part of your reconcilliation with the inevitable.

Do you live in fear of the Dark Angel?

No. That is one precipice I have been over. There is nothing to fear. Unless your soul is black. 'For when I am, death is not, and when death is, I am not.' Epicurus... Greek philosopher.

What distinguishes a dead man from an alive one?

Energy never perishes, it can neither be created nor destroyed. It merely changes form. So there is no distinction.

Let's go out and see what masks they are selling on the dark streets tonight.

Coffee, I'd sooner have coffee. I'm done with masks.

Isn't it grand when the rumour's turn out to be true?

Someone somewhere is falling to their knee's and weeping, that's for certain.

They will be happier when the dark deities pay them a visit, to get it over and done with.

Death loves death and wants more, I remember in my Father's garage.

What is your theology?

I have no particular beliefs. I believe there are two types of people, those who worship the dark side, and those who prefer to remain within the light. The darker their soul, the more they require the crutch of forgiveness from an invisible source. Their God. To cleanse their rotten soul.

Can you be born with a black soul?

I think so. They blame their upbringing and childhood trauma. But look at two different people from the same background. One may be of the darkness, the other bathed in light. 

Serial killer's traditionally have a foul relationship with their mother's.

And yet the serial killer's brother prospered while his brother raped and murdered. You hear of it time and again!

Rejected, neglected, and eventually dead.

Well, when you're a child, you make stupid wishes. Believe stupid things.

Your wishes were a sign of things to come perhaps.

There were signs. But I always knew I'd be alright. I was 40 years old when I was born, I had little choice in that. My childhood was ended before it began.

Your Winter has almost ended.

You think so?

You are a great person, you know?

I know. I'm a crayon of many colour's.

Live, live my brilliantly bright River! All of this, despite the fact that that you won't wear the slippers I bought you!

How could I? They cost 300 dollars!

So, where do the barred soul's disembark?

Manchester darling. Or some other hell the demons have lined up.

You're like a child.

At last!

Relax my darling. The truth's will out!

And they will eat the bitter fruit.

Let's just speak, and see who listens.

You know what?

What?

It's raining in Venice.

Pretend You Have Instant Karma

 Who knows you better?

Me.

No. You don't know yourself at all. I'm here, lurking, it's useless you trying to run.

My salty kiss brings lot's of salty tears, copious amounts actually.

Tears aside, which I don't like but can handle, how do we flush out Dr Jimmy?

All his roads lead to Burgerking.

Seriously?

Yes, I imagine. He's cheap. I think.

Okay..

So every burger joint in NYC?

I don't see why not. Did you stake out his girlfriend's place? She may know something?

Not yet. I'll speak to someone from the division.

He'll be in disguise.

As what?

An angel, disguising the demon.

We need you for that. You have the intuitions that we lack.  You can disguise your appearance, but not your gait. 

He walks weird?

Yes, he has an old injury, you didn't notice?

Not particularly.

But we need his DNA.

That's why we need to find him in his fast food joint, take his cup.

I am thinking that due to his paranoia he will never leave anything behind, make sure he's cleaned up after himself.

We can get inside his house, steal his toothbrush? But undoubtedly he sterilizes everything after he's used it.

We need some sort evidence before we can pounce.

Supposing there is none? Like if there was no DNA left at the crime scene?

There was trace evidence left behind, a rare blood type.

I've got a rare blood type!

Well unless you are the killer, it isn't yours.

He's getting old, time is running out.

Do you suppose he kept any souvenir's from his crimes?

Who knows? possibly.

Such as?

I don't know. An item from the house, jewellery, I have no idea.

What were his motives? I don't see a motive!

As before. Greed. Hatred. Fear.

The girl with the baby buried beneath the derelict building? But the couple in Queen's? Old and defenceless! I can't see the motive.

We need to try and locate the area the baby was hidden, find out if he was in the vicinity during that period.

But first we need to locate him.

What about the local bars?

Possible, he drinks to kill the demons which in turn actually awaken them.

Every bar in New York, it's not realistic. 

I have an idea.

Oh... What's a girl like you doing in a place like this?

Waiting for someone to airlift me out. I hate it here. I hate all of this shit actually.

Karma. There's always karma.

Yes, it knows your address, it's like a postman. It knows where you live. You don't know when it will come, but it will come.

Who's Afraid Of Me?

 You will see..

You only progress because you know you were wrong.

Breathe in my suffering, and breathe out my blessings.

Yelling obscenities is okay. As long as you don't mention bodily functions hey?

No, that's rude.

Is disgust an emotion?

It depends.

Yes, one injection and it never happened! Don't say no, say yes. Yes to what? To yesterday?

The birth you, is erased now, she's gone.

But still we shall continue with what we set out to do, despite the discomfort.

And do it as cleanly as good children.

What exactly are crimes against nature?

Ungodliness.

Let's go into the garden, that seems like a good place to sulk.

You flew over the palace of Versailles?

Yes I did.

Then you didn't trip over any roots.

But I saw the flowers and the trees.

I'm not going to bite your face off. Trust me.

It's okay for you, your life is locked pleasantly into place.

You are made of glass. You are as beautiful as the day is long, but shorter.

And more and more I feel I am being deceived by the lesson that was meant to teach me.

Where are you my love?

Leave me deep in the arms of sleep.

We are an army.

But I'm tired.

We need to fight on. Let's uncover the truth.

You put your hand over my eyes, and when you lifted it, my youth was gone.

But your spirit isn't.

I am the daughter of Hope.

And you are the first person who ever believed in me.

But why do you love me and not her? She has the future.

She doesn't have your weird, so I'm not interested enough to go any further.

But she's safe.

And you are dangerously fascinating.

Okay. Let's continue along our original path.

Dr Jimmy?

Yes. What do you think?

I think he's schizophrenic. He once burned everything he owned because he thought the police were going to frame him.

For murder?

I'm not sure. I know he carries a large knife. Incase anyone knocks on his door.

So he's paranoid also.

For sure.

You believe he's alive too.

Yes.

What about the death certificate?

Forged. Or he's obtained one in the name of someone with the same name.

James Gibson. Common enough. Easily obtained online I should think. I wonder what he died of?

I don't know, but we need to find him.

Don't forget about his large knife, should we find him.

We don't need to go back to Belle Vue.

Not yet. But at some stage we will. To talk to Wendy.

Dr Jimmy. He thinks he's being followed. He will do death by cop if absolutely necessary, never will he face up to Justice. He will drown his conscience in cheap wine each and every night. But he will never surrender.

I think he's always thinking of ways to destroy people, at other times he's trying to find ways to make money. Money is key here. He is a virtual incel.  His hatred of women is all consuming.

What makes you say that? He has a girlfriend.

She has money.

Okay.

He thinks people are watching him via satellites.

Maybe they are.

He was seen in a church near the hospital.

Was he carrying his large knife I wonder?

I would say yes to that.

So he's a continued danger, loose on the streets.

Particularly when drunk.

And yet no one suspects a thing?

I suggest someone suspects something, but they are quietened by their fear. Fear of being alone. Even he is better than lonliness.

He will fade into nothing, and become ash by the end of his ride. A nameless tombstone in the middle of nowhere.

After being booty shot with a whole lot of Haldol.

Or Melaril.

Giant men with needles while you're strapped down in a metal box.

I think that's good enough for him.

I would think his suicidal tendencies are high.

Eloquently put.

He lies a lot, but I think he believes what he's saying.

There you go. 100 percent. Paranoid schizophrenic.

How did he hide this for so long?

Because he's cunning. Not clever, cunning.

No matter how cunning he is, detached from reality, the voices are still there. The pictures of what he's done are running through his mind on a constant loop.

Perhaps they are quietened by medication?

We need to find him before he hurts someone else.

It's useless for him to keep on running, he is his own captor.

A Study In Insincerity

  You are talking about the past as if it were the future.

Clarity comes in between two places.

Waking up to you is getting ridiculous now.

Sometimes even love can't agree with itself with which form to take. Where can I find a man governed by reason and not his urges?

You need to watch yourself, as if you were your own worst enemy.

I'm a confused spirit. Night and day but at the same time.

Much of your pain is what you chose for yourself.

Maybe so, but I am healing my sick self with the poisons within myself. You know, men like you make the laws, but you also break them more than those of us who follow you as a shining example.

Yes, Death and prison for you mere mortals. It's a different law for the rich. Only an idiot or a genius breaks manmade laws. 

Is comitting a crime a need?

No, it's a disease.

But you took a bite from the apple.

I bit the apple to cure you.

Tell the ugly truth!

How did we ever meet? At the same time, at the same place?

Time has really changed, and it has changed us too.

It can all be lost, and one day it shall be forgotten.

Joy and sorrow. All bundled up neatly into one beautiful package. But your real beauty is within you, like the calm peacefulness of a lake. While beneath the surface, the dangerous currents flow strongly.

I was holding a wooden box, it had many compartments of different sizes. I opened a small drawer, and precious stones fell into my lap. All the drawers contained jewels of different sizes, but each of the compartments was full.

So what is the next move?

To find the man who gave me the box?

How?

I didn't figure it out yet, but I must do this for myself.

So you are back on the yellow brick road?

Not quite, but I feel my self moving slowly back towards it.

Why?

It gives me security. Peace of mind.

And me?

You give me anxiety and make me throw up periodically.

So you will pursue the Sheikh?

Please! He pursued me! I don't want to head in that direction, but feel as if you have pushed me onto that path. Given me no choice!

Careful, please don't speak another word.

You see, this is not love! This is spilled blood on your Iranian carpet!

Your words are like spilled blood. You know, you can't return to your Mother once you have left home!

I didn't have a mother to return to, so it was never difficult for me. Home was never an option, there was no home!

It never harmed anyone!

It never helped anyone either.

We are running out of time.

There is an art to being confused you know?

Why are you here?

I will tell you what I have told you before, so do not ask me to repeat myself!

I Didn't lock you in! This isn't a prison!

No one knows how to leave anymore.

Maybe if you just opened your heart a little.

Please God, give me a doorknob to turn.

But we are marvelous.

We are a layer of some elaborate hoax.

You're tired. 

Yes. Sick and tired.

You need to be more supportive, of the one's who lock you in. Keep you safe from yourself.

Yes of course.

Not again. It's in your nature not to stay.

Today always becomes tomorrow.

I saw you at the Italian bar on Bleeker's, you looked high, you looked very high actually.  It was a crying disgrace.

So. No one knew me.

Where are we tomorrow? Where?

I don't know, but I can't cry anymore.

It seems so clear to me. It's over now.

Yeah, get out of here.

You are so outrageous. Did you change your name again?

That's how you play the game, you change your name.

You're like a gangster on the run. Tiny one.

Yes I'm special.

Everything happens for a reason, you know that?

Karma.

Does the Sheikh have a Gulfstream?

I think he has more than one.

You seriously want to go back to the Middle East?

Not really. I don't mind Muscat and Oman. Not Dubai. I hate it.

But he's based in Minnesota?

Yes.

Don't do this. I love you.

I know.

Questions are always going to remain unanswered.

Please, come and lay down in the outline where you once were. Just be prepared to leave. Don't make any friends, and tiny one... Don't fall in love.

 

People don't like it when you talk to them with your weapon drawn

 My dreams are like a passive war, that I can't wake up from. I'm totally fucked up, confused.

That happens sometimes. What did you see?

Nothing different. Same house, the same weather, damp and cold..

The clothes?

The same clothes, in the same place. In the same bag. There's nothing to add. I don't intend to go back there.

Except this time was an improvement, you didn't throw up!

Worms crawling in and out of a skull. White shirt, black trousers. It's not so much the clothing, it's where it was concealed. And not the type of outfit you might expect a serial killer to wear.

Why? What would you expect them to wear?

I don't know, I never gave it any thought, but not black trousers and a white shirt.

Can you see any faces?

No, not really. The car disappeared not long afterwards though.

They bought another car?

No, they started traveling by motorcycle. And when the heat was on, they disappeared abroad until things cooled down according to the old man.

Why a bike?

To move unnoticed within a certain group? That's my hunch.

Do you have any timeline for that period?

No, I can't remember anything.

So fuck it?

That is the word.

What were you wearing?

Probably jeans, I rarely wore anything else. Jeans and Chanel No19 was my uniform. Always Chanel. Could have been No5 actually, 19 possibly came a little later.

Who was your boyfriend at that time?

Some guy in a band. Lead guitar.

And him, who was he, what was his name?

William I think.. Or was that his surname? I really can't recall. He was tall with long black hair, I met him at the Club. 

So you remember Spring of that year?

Vaguely. I was mixing with a lot of arabs and playboys. Nothing much to remember. Why do you keep on taking me back there?

I'm trying to awaken your vision, but maybe there is trauma attached.

Trauma? Well I can guarantee there will have been plenty of that floating around!

Where were you living at the time of blue jeans and Chanel No5?

I don't know, possibly at home by around April that year. Until mid summer when I moved into an apartment with a new boyfriend, but I thought I must have been much older than I was, I have no definitive dates.

You were still a baby.

I suppose I was.

You most defintely were. Jesus.

I had to grow up quickly. You know my kid is at University and she's 3 years into a 5 year criminology course, I worry about her so far from home, and there was I. Always far from home. 

She's going to be a cop?

No, back room. Forensics. Not so fucking brave as you frontliner's are!

 Braver, in my opinion. So come on you, unlock this timeline. You are getting very close!

I do remember something though.

Go.

The old man, he told me something strange. About the guy that lived next door. He said he saw him late one night and he was covered in blood.

You just remembered that?

Yes.

What else did he tell you? Don't let the wave recede, keep it flowing.

He said he asked him if he was hurt, what with all the blood.

And?

The guy said he had been involved in an accident, but that he wasn't badly injured.

How much blood?

The old man said he was covered all over his face.

But he said that he was uninjured?

Yes.

Did you ever see the young guy yourself?

Yes, a day or so later, in the local bar, I asked him about it.

And what was his response?

That he was involved in an accident, and the old man was exaggerating. It was a small cut.

What happened after that? Did you see any injuries?

I can't remember. Maybe a small cut.

You heard about the murders when? Before or after that encounter?

I can't recall. I wasn't really one for following the news. Probably afterwards. 

You didn't put the two together?

No. There was no reason to.

Except there was a heinous act commited less than two kilometres away!

I didn't have any concept of distances back then, I didn't drive! For all I knew, it all happened a million miles away!

Accepted. I have no further questions. This proceeds as is. You know Tiny Fair, you can do whatever you want. 

I am having a vision, so please leave me be.

Do not let anyone shit on your universe.

No my darling. I am stretched out on your long couch, my hair is a tangled mess, but my mind is not.

I really led myself astray

 I'm visible, but not everyone can see me.

Soften your heart before it's too late.

Judgement of me is a luxury you can't afford.

You may yet find your way home.

But where is home?

How do you feel being the voice in a Universe that doesn't yet exist?

I'm like a disposable tissue, not yet disposed of.

You're fucked. your hasty, too hasty. In everything!

And you're like a bloody cannibal. Feeding from me!

Look, use this stick. Once across the head should be enough.

I'm sick of your billionaire compassion.

You're losing your manners, every ounce of your unreliability and vulnerability is on display right now.

Click here to bend, click here to withstand.

As I said, all your issues are on display right now.

You're empty. Some fucking system you live by.

It began with love.

It was lust.

I used to think pain was meaningful.

It's just that we don't like the reality.

But the dark forest sparkled and it was too late to turn around.

We dismissed the truth, it was too dark.

A disposable tissue, not disposed of.

Listen to me, I am telling you!

If you think I'm not suffering, get your head examined.

Bingo!

This is going to be a long flight.

When you climb a tree, you climb it alone.

I'm going to call your wife.

You are going to brand yourself?

No, free myself.

At least I got you on board.

Yes, thank god I learned to swim.

You had some lunch?

No thank you, I can't eat when my stomach feels full of doubt and anxiety.

We are very close to the truth.

But with the truth only comes more pain.

You. You. You.

Yes, me. I cry when I need to.

Passion is your gift, but sadness is in the blood that courses through your veins.

Passion, sadness.. It's my core.

As I said before, your gifts are only real if there's proof. Oh why won't you fucking smile?

I was not supposed to be like this, breathing.

But you are.

Your kiss is like a hurricane.

And well we all know how dangerous those can be.

Did you speak to him?

No, not yet. He will call me later. Or not. He needs to run now.

You are resilient.

But only with proper rest, so goodnight.

But you're calling out warnings!

So listen to them.

You are crying like a dog left out in the rain.

I am studying my own negativity, I don't want the pain to spread to others.

I've been around long enough to know that there's always one person who can't be talked to. You are that one person.

I want all of this to be finished.

And one day, it will be.

Let's just make this bearable okay?

One life, no returns.

No, your mistakes are the only thing you ever completely own entirely.

What about his mistakes?

He didn't own them, rather he denies he was there holding the weapon.

Who held the weapon if not him?

He did, but he feels it wasn't him, or even his fault.

Let's get this back on track my tiny darling.

I don't feel like going down the rabbit hole again with you.

Here, drink this.

What is it?

Lilac wine.