...a deathly serenade...

warming a pair of my old underwear. B in his
usual jovial state smiled and grabbed my hand to
greet. He had started talking about what? I
couldn’t be sure at first. I was still consumed by
AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA Lucia so I interrupted him by it, but he just
shrugged and continued. —She is always cold, it
is as if the sun doesn’t exist, he said with one
hand on his stomach and the other hand still
clutching mine, awkwardly (for me). But do you
know what? Let me tell you what— The focus of
his conversation gnawed a subtle feeling of
jealousy: ever since I was young I failed at being
able to conjure enthusiasm for small talk— Always
holding the precept that, in a way, life can
comprise of two types of people, in this sense:
those who do and those who don’t. Those who do
indulge freely in small talk don’t severely suffer
life’s complexities, as they are too busy with life,
as opposed to those in the mire of what life
actually amounts to without distraction, as if
collecting thoughts alone in a dessert. An
overdose on what life is can have its adverse
effects, as I entirely noticed living amongst
Anarchists: the conversations of: Stalin, Marxism,
Political science, (to name a few issues), were all
ways in which conversations were often hijacked.
The surrealism of Antonin’s visions a stark
contrast—where reality is rarely consistent of
anything but sheer concern: Concern for the
environment, concern for political agendas or just
concern for the way in which people lived in a
squat—It was funny how a squat could be such a
160