Then an idea, like a million iron particles, rushed to his head, suddenly.
He knew what he had to do, and that he had to do it now.
He got off the train at Parliament, walked to the ground via that escalator ride that took forever to finish, sounds of mechanical rotations and collision getting louder and more violent. He was deaf. He could hear everything and then nothing, like himself submerged in the depth of the oceans and he could not breath but hearing the whole world imploding into him.
And then there Mr. Kenichi saw the man, at entrance D right at the bottom of the Windsor hotel, he saw the man. A beautiful street, he thought, embraced by works of the neoclassical and baroque, the Victorian and the Gothic revival, a street of a glamorous past, before Melbourne was raped off the throne.
Then, having picked up his speed on the man, Mr. Kenichi pulled out the bottle of wine from his bag, and gave the head a blow with all the strength he ever had. The man fell onto the hard blue stone floor, unconscious.
What a beautiful night. He thought. I can still make it to dinner. All there's left to do now, is to fill in the blanks.
Tuesday, January 25, 2011
one.
this is a story.
he had a dream last night. something about a murder.
a man walking down Collins Street at 8: 56pm, followed by a shadow for one block, then between the fantastically themed display windows of Hermes and the non inspiring leather bags of Bally he was knocked unconscious from behind.
Hermes has a taste for drama when it comes to their window display, this time is the story of ballerinas clothed in their signature scarves. Stupid name that nobody can pronounce with their fucking scarves, he thought.I'll be late.
it didn't even hurt. he felt a resonance in his head, maybe it's coming directly due somewhere outside, far away from the depth of the oceans, but at the same time a sound so imminent and close that his ears fail to capture.
then Mr. Kenichi found himself awake in his own bed at 6:14 am, completely soaked in sweat. It was a comfortable moment, like that which immediately follows an orgasm.
Shit, I was murdered. Mr. Kenichi stared onto the white ceiling of his Dorcas St. apartment. It felt great.
he had a dream last night. something about a murder.
a man walking down Collins Street at 8: 56pm, followed by a shadow for one block, then between the fantastically themed display windows of Hermes and the non inspiring leather bags of Bally he was knocked unconscious from behind.
Hermes has a taste for drama when it comes to their window display, this time is the story of ballerinas clothed in their signature scarves. Stupid name that nobody can pronounce with their fucking scarves, he thought.I'll be late.
it didn't even hurt. he felt a resonance in his head, maybe it's coming directly due somewhere outside, far away from the depth of the oceans, but at the same time a sound so imminent and close that his ears fail to capture.
then Mr. Kenichi found himself awake in his own bed at 6:14 am, completely soaked in sweat. It was a comfortable moment, like that which immediately follows an orgasm.
Shit, I was murdered. Mr. Kenichi stared onto the white ceiling of his Dorcas St. apartment. It felt great.
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