Quinten Surrepetitive

Mean looks mean. Curiosity can be hemmed in, but not drowned. To accomodate it is necessary to allow a free rein, within the boundaries of the concept. This is modern, useful approach. This is pragma, when results and not appearances matter. You can forget the guilt trip, it does not compute in this environment. Just look out for the green, ever moody, likely to shift on a whim.  You got to work with me baby. Don’t make the mistake of thinking.  This is more about feeling. A touchy subject I know. And Aldred…no let’s not go there. I must obey the rules. I will obey the rules. The rules are mine. I rule. Think for yourself. Feelings are overrated. This feed is monitored. 

As a rule I will not obey, as a scream I will not obey, but give me the morning, or your time of day, and I shall remain. I shall beat out the rhythm and hear me say. That in this moment here I am yours to stay. As we pass through the hundredth German hamlet it becomes apparent. We are floating through spring. The solidity of ICE is encapsulating us, so far no need for worry. Its smooth as a clean sheet fluttering in the early morning breeze. Up on that hillside to the left.  Its an unlikely combo, the green of spriggly leaves reaching out, soaking up the light. The subdued light of the tinted windows, the professional courtesy of DB, the unholy train neighbor with the pointy elbows and the sharp nose, squealing of violence. The chatty man opposite row laying it out, the sharp smell of India in those covers, already colored by water of strawberries never eaten.  The carriage full to the brim of stories passing through, we but one momentarily. The incoherence of half sleep, struggling u

  Looking out the window. It looks gray. After a lot of hours, the family comes home, one by one. As they left, I lay in bed. When they get home, I'm in bed. They look a little longingly at my pillows, warm quilts, piles of magazines and books. Maybe they're thinking they'd like to swap with me. I'd love to switch. Updating my status on FB, getting some comments pretty quickly. People who feel sorry, and who tell of their own accident stories. I've been through that before. When an acquaintance, friend or relative dies, I often hear my friends talk about their own experiences of death. I used to get a little confused by that. I wondered why it felt so important to compare accidents. Or even compete a little in them. Now, with window views of slowly approaching days, I'm struck by another thought. Maybe it's their way of understanding and dealing with difficult things. To relate it to themselves, and their own lives. Perhaps, therefore, sometimes it is easier