Well, the girl I was supposed to be seeing now turned out to be out of town, so instead I’m sitting here on the windowsil, looking out of the third story window of my apartament. It’s always the same thing: large concrete blocks lined with rows of dark windows. Gray lines of pavement snaking between those hulking constructions. The few solitary trees rustling under the breeze of the late spring, covered by an overcast sky as gray as the ever-present concrete. And when it rains, every surface gets dark and water streams from the sides of the buildings in enormous, grimy waterfalls and they vomit dirty water from the drainpipes.
The town has its own sound: a quiet hum you start noticing when you’re in complete silence. The wind travels through the narrow streets, whistling through the cracks in the windows and it picks up every sound along its way, be it buses starting off from the circuit or trucks full of construction material upending their cargo somewhere, or an errant scream, cut short by an unknown occurence.
And you can never see the horizon here. You can never see farther than a kilometer or two ahead. The buildings always block the view. There’s no spot here from which you aren’t being watched by dozens of hollow windows. I often take long walks through the town, gazing at the birds flying under the solid grey sky and I envy their freedom. I get this strange feeling of being watched, or am overcome by a sudden urge to turn around.
It’s saturday evening, but there’s nobody outside. What few people I pass by during my strolls I either don’t know or they barely acknowledge my existence. Very often I’ve seen people suddenly change their route when they seen me approaching from ahead: just suddenly started off into a back alley. And there are no stray animals here. A few plastic bags float through the air like tumbleweeds, watched by flocks of pigeons skirmishing over pieces of stale bread sprinkled at every trash can. The pavement closest to the apartament stairwells is covered by children’s chalk drawings. From there they always look like ancient cave paintings: broken figures chasing each other, cryptic messages, trails of arrows always leading to dead ends where you’re left under the vigil of the windows, wondering what made you follow them.
At night the wind always get stronger. Its whistling sounds like strange whispering and it keeps following you everywhere. After dark, looking more closely at the curtain-covered windows makes me nervous; I turn away in seconds with sweat forming on my forehead. And I always sleep with my back to the windows, yet the feeling of being watched never goes away.
I mentioned I live on the third floor. Sometimes I pass my downstairs neighbor on the stairwell. We exchange knowing smiles and keep on walking, never turning back. I’ve never seen the people who live in the apartament above me, but at night when it gets quiet I can follow their steps by the noises they make. They keep pacing around in a rhytmic gait and always stop at 10pm - the curfew. In all my time spent gazing out this window I’ve also never seen anyone else looking out through them. The white curtains never move. They never reveal what the impenetrable darkness behind them holds. Nobody around here keeps any plants or knick-knacks on their windowsil.
My room has crooked walls and an uneven ceiling. The plants all wither within months and it’s always cold here. Now that I think of it and write it all down, it’s always been strange around here. It makes me uneasy thinking what might be looking back at me through every one of the eighty-something windows facing me from the building across the street.
disabled afganistan veteran returns home on a motorized wheelchair after losing both his legs to IEDs. the wheelchair flips over on a shitty-made curb and the soldier faceplants into the ground. the camera keeps focusing on him, he can be seen crying and moaning low. the audience goes wild screaming EPIC FAIL LMAO. hearing the commotion his wife steps outside on the porch, except with a buck nigger with his arm around her waist. by now even the host starts snickering. the ad break shows TV spots for call of duty. its the year 2012 and the western civilization is on the brink of collapse.
americas funniest home vidos.
Story
This one’s sorta old.
My Very First Kiss
she drove a big old lincoln with suicide doors nd a sewing machine in the back and a light bulb that looked like an alligator egg was mounted up front on the hood and she had an easter bonnet that had been signed by tennessee ernie ford and she always had saw dust in her hair and she cut two holes in the back of her dress and she had these scapular wings that were covered with feathers and electrical tape and when she got good and drunk she would sing about elkheart, indiana, where the wind is strong and folks mind their own business and she had at least a hundred old baseballs that she’d taken from kids and she collected bones of all kinds and she lived in a trailer under a bridge and she made her own whiskey and gave cigarettes to kids and she’d been struck by lightning seven or eight times and she hated the mention of rain and she made up her own language and she wore rubber boots and she could fix anything with string and her lips were like cherries and she was stronger than any man and she smelled like gasoline and root beer fizz and she put mud on a bee sting i got at the creek and she gave me my very first kiss and she gave me my very first kiss and she gave me my very first kiss and she gave me my very first kiss and she gave me my very first kiss and she gave me my very first kiss
Twenty Five Years of Solitude
[CURTAIN]
[ENTER VIOLETA WOLAND]
VIOLETA is tracked by a spotlight on an otherwise pitch black stage
VIOLETA: Ladies and gentlemen! The Green Goose Theatre Troupe is pleased to present our finest literary masterpiece as of yet: Twenty Five Years of Solitude. A play in three acts. A touching tale, full of romance and action. Of drama and comedy! And even something for the parents when the kids fall asleep! So, without further ado!
[EXIT VIOLETA]
[CURTAIN]
ACT I