Is not my cup of tea. And is it caffeine or me? I live like a ghost, sneaking around corners, leaving no trace or memory. I move the dust on the road when walking to the tube station, sitting by strangers to which I am a stranger too. They won’t know I’ve there, I won’t know they’ve been there. The dust will fall back in the place it was before I’d let my footstep, ready to me moved by someone else’s feet. Let’s write a sentence on the sand. Let’s steal it from someone else’s book. Chances are it can be remembered then. I live like a ghost and I sneaking around corners. Like the fog in the autumn, in the field. It disappears with as the sun rise. It disappears and even if it will come back on the day after, no one will notice. One just walk trough the fog without bothering. Just a sense of annoyance, need to slow down your car, look around more carefully, but then will be over, and the fog’s forgiven. I can trace my sentence in the dense cloud of smog, and the wind will cancel them, because no one is there to listen to them. And won’t probably remember them anyway. Rightly. I live like a ghost because the castles made of playing cards are not strong enough to hold the weight of a proper human being. But still can sustain something which is more similar to an immaterial entity. But those are only fragile shelters from the monsoon, and will be swept away, although are so easy to rebuilt, if one decide to ignore the warning. And the rain can’t harm a ghost. And there is silence in this place. There’s a silence which is nearly unreal. Unreal as a ghost is. And last for days and days. Things around here don’t make sounds, and can’t listen to them. Things around here all look quite vain. I have lived like a ghost for too many years, and have realised just right now, how insignificant all that has been. And if I’ll see myself in the mirror, is that the one would have liked to see? Sure I’ll walk to my death because I know I’ll never feel that way again. Sure today is bound to be less boring then tomorrow. At least there is a consolation, the day I’ll disappear, no one will miss me. If I’ll burn or draw, won’t make any difference. And when you have no one, no one can hurt you, sure, but who’ll be by your side then? A ghost, might be. Take care Love (if you can have some) Stefano +-------------------------------------------------------------------------+ +---+ Brought to you by the Sinister mailing list +---+ To send to the list mail sinister@missprint.org. To unsubscribe send "unsubscribe sinister" or "unsubscribe sinister-digest" to majordomo@missprint.org. WWW: http://www.missprint.org/sinister +-+ "sinsietr is a bit freaky" - stuart david, looper +-+ +-+ "legion of bedroom saddo devotees" "peculiarly deranged fanbase" +-+ +-+ "pasty-faced vegan geeks... and we LOST!" - NME April 2000 +-+ +-+ "frighteningly named Sinister List organisation" - NME May 2000 +-+ +-+ "sick posse of f**ked in the head psycho-fans" - NME June 2001 +-+ +-+ Nee, nee mun pish, chan pai dee kwa +-+ +-+ Snipp snapp snut, sa var sagan slut! +-+ +-------------------------------------------------------------------------+