Sinister: dark buildings

[Will Salt]

working at the library today as it was closing; all the lights were off
and the building was dark throughout.  it's a big building, and in the
middle everything was completely black.  in the distance, i could see the
light of the windows filtered past thousands of shelves and millions of
books.  the cosy place was suddenly creepy.  too much information.  too
dark for anything

it made me think. buildings should never be dark.  they should *always*
have some dim light coming somewhere.  to design a building without light
is unnatural.  apart from darkrooms, which are the cosiest, most relaxing
places.

Content: ooh! new singles!

touring makes me nervous, though.  i don't like going to gigs, really.
too many crowds. in dark rooms, as well. but ... on the other hand, how
could i miss it?

To all those of you who are debating which RPG game was the best, i have
just three words to say: The Bard's Tale.  this correspondance is now
closed.  Next week on Sinister-Geek: 10 reasons why C++ is the spawn
of the devil.  Will your band [F]ight or [R]un?

i liked the post about the depressed-looking girl sitting by herself by
the roadside, because i notice those sort of people and want to say
something, but never do.  i never dare to.  

there is one of these events, i particularly remember.  when i had first
moved to scotland and was still in Tourist Mode, i decided to go and
visit the old cemetaries of the city.  i was in the Old Calton Hill
graveyard, which is walled, tiny, quiet and crowded.  nobody else was
there, apart from a girl sat cross-legged on a grave.  she looked as
peaceful as those underneath her; i was embarrassed that i'd disturbed her
privacy.  i looked round the mausoleums in the darker corners of the
ground, and when i emerged she had gone.  maybe she wasn't even there.
hopefully, i'll never forget her.

ghost stories are always the saddest, i feel. well, *real* ghost stories
often aren't actually that interesting, but good ghost stories are as sad
as the girl on her own by the roadside.  stories of dead servant-boys, or
the ghosts of disfigured aristocrat girls trapped in vast country houses.
you know the sort of thing i mean.

i wish i could talk to ghosts.  do something for them.  i cried at the end
of The Sixth Sense, you know.

look, i should go.  i've said too much already.
/me turns out the light.



x

anonymous from grimsby






-- 
"We've /all/ got dismembered Cub Scouts under our front porches, Honey"
-- Douglas Coupland

"N is for Neville, who died of ennui" -- Edward Gorey

ICQ 66321009

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