It was the nostalgic enterprise of an emotional reaction, made to destroy. “I can’t be any more clear…do you understand?”
“Are you going to vote?”
“For what?”
It was the trivial uselessness of bookshelves and paper cutters, dark framed glasses and grey clothes. The superfluous attempt at becoming the next “Hamlet” or “Hedayat”.
“Your references are weak.”
“Are you going to vote?”
It was the only thing this herd of superior beings knew how to do. Clashing with the next door tomcats and the pole dancer on channel 478.
“The polls are fictive, you know?”
I was simply agitated. Loud laughs made my head hurt. I always thought migraines are genetic.
“Do you watch porn?”
I walked out on them. I went for a jog and then followed the road and realized I was tired, too tired to go back. I was out of breath and my mouth tasted like thirst, drought, sweat, salt.
“ I bought pepper. How could we be out of pepper? It’s in the left cabinet on top of the stove.”
I was hungry and hated feeling like a martyr again. What was I dying for, what am I deprived of? How long did I run? 23 minutes and 56 seconds. 20% discount on a $ 78 jar. The second biannual study on third generation exilic memoirs. Lover number 13. Liar number 3905. The 5000-year history of the second becoming of monotheistic religions of the glorious pi.
“Who are you voting for?”
