Gibberish or the Irrelevant

"What am I thinking about? Well... I am thinking if you could get further away from me, things might turn out more desirable."

Five meters from him down the badly-lit passage way flanked by doors, half ajar, to classrooms too whitely well-lit. Light emanated from those classrooms tasted irksome to the eye and looked fluorescent to the tongue--- yeah, not a very agreeable place to stay, especially when I was only five meters away from him. It was no use that I moved further away, because he was going to close in semi absentmindedly anyway; seemed to him I was so sluggish a slut as not to be aware of his childish scheme. If I turned and walked away, where was I to go? The light flourishing in the classroom was oppressive, whereas world elsewhere never treated Pagans mercifully. People are in need of faith. People know no resistance and are too easily Jesusified--- therefore we always fight for ourselves, against the light, of course.

Give a definition to "desirable".

I don't know. Goddamnit. I mean, move your ass, motherfucker.

All right, "desirable" is a absolute opposite to your face, your body, only five centimeters taller than I am, which is short in proportion, not in height; with its flesh incorrigibly soft to my ears and full of smudges as a result of numerous inconclusive pimples that crawled--- imagine how they crawled! No, they must have ransacked all over you. Spare me your presence! Spare me your flesh! That incessantly importunely pouring soft murmurings and high calories into my ears. Your love letters are deaf to my reading.

I left there, though, to where the stairway adjoining the hall, at the corner of which were water supply machines, his presence sticking to my back like spitted chewing gum that just wouldn't come off.

"If you kindly allow me, Eros, I would like to laugh over this matter."
One lean boy walked over to me.

"What matter, my dear Kyd?"
I poured some water for myself.

"When I was on my way to the dormitory, I met that guy from department of chemistry. By heaven's graceful convenience I inquired him where I can get a bouquet. To my saintly observation, it was like a Lordly reminder to him, to see him lighted up suddenly and turned sprightly, cavorting about saying : 'alas, my love...'"


His face, always pale but not without a shot of blood, twisted courteously in his "Kyddish" mockery.


"He has made the target of all these gibberish all too plainly; he created such a scene, alas, for you, that from the rats in the depth of hell to the seraphs in the highest of high know about it."

"Keep your elegant medieval figures of speech to yourself, my dear."


I couldn't help but seeing your flesh trembling fat in mid-air. I was getting desperate at your flesh's great happiness and yours.
 

"Do you really find this amusing? And by the way, do rats go to hell? Or do heights know extremities?"

"Nay, nay, contentious Satanist; I don't want to argue about rat and hell, nor seraphs and infinities..."

 

He shook his hand.


"I would like to wait and see how you are going to deal with it. Sheer delight to Christians! Now you are tortured."

(My dear, you are the evil.)

[This, and only this, is not enough to torture me. But let us shake this thing off my mind. It is not its significance that bothers me, but its pettiness.]

"The bell has rung." He said, and rose. I was surprised that, in fact, I heard nothing.

"Do you like me, Kyd? Do you love me?"

He bided me adieu, saying: "oh, Eros, use your imagination."

"If you do, I'll never ever forgive you. NEVER!"

He was out of earshot, though. Maybe he, being so heavenly, was never within earshot--- even when we were playing some secret game of interpretation together; oh, a game I couldn't afford to lose. I tricked, hence; I tricked like hell.


*****
Story of the irrelevant and blest are the sick. Misspelling words and phrases ill-arranged. Refuse to justify a piece of mind with Microsoft Word but invariably surrendered, giving up victory and pride to wriggling underline of red or green. Why should I? I don't know. When habitual chronicle indifference is more powerful over mind than hate but a little less than love; when everybody else has a dream as a fashion trend of great literary art throughout the eras, I should have one, too; or at least, each night, I should put in a black metal CD and tune the player down a bit to facilitate my sleep. What a shame I never dreamed of Fenriz.

Instead, I dreamed that the fat dude is dead. How? I can't remember. There must've been an euthanasia insofar as I could surmise, because recently I never woke up with a pleasant mood, that is, justice never occured in the realm of my dreams.

To furthermore explain on this, I must give a definition to "euthanasia". Oh, shit, not again, baby. First of all, euthanasia is for dogs, sometimes cats; if you like it, fish and spiders. But we not yet have in any legitimate country a legal one for humans, since human beings are born with original sins, spurned from the face of God and haven't learned mercy from God for quite a while, nor do human deserve it either from the providence of God or from themselves, who, for countless generations, had learned to read and write and filled their reading and writing with killing people, which we now call history.

No, he is a human, love's brandisher and a torturer. No euthanasia.

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