Parallel

The fantasy's come true. A professor of mine actually read part of the Bible in ancient Greek, to show that audiology works better in Greek than German. Duh (I imagine that you'd agree with me: pretty much anything would sound better in other European languages than German.) There are some who seem to attract the strangest energy, after being struck by the feeling of "all the sudden, nothing makes sense anymore", occasions happening around me seem to be running parallel to each other: family drama while attending a lecture "King Lear", my Tuesday seminar professor happened to mention an article I should give a presentation on Monday; personal tragedy served to explain her course of philosophy. If time is qualitative and conscious, does it mean that the times goes not well when I am unconscious, but what about the moments I spend just starring at the ceiling?...

....Someone stopped me in the middle of a hallway:"Strike with us! Today at noon." he handed me a flayer: "The strike continues, what would happen in Berlin? The universities in Vienna, Cologne, ... are on strike."

"Are you striking because other people are on the strike?"

"No. Yes. We want better education conditions. We want them to eliminate the tuition."

250 Euros for one semester! With ABC zone transportation included. That is 102 Euros for normal people, per month. You are holding a more than 600 Euro transportation ticket, including all the airports and Potsdam, and the discount for almost everything, why is that a reason to go on a strike? Did you know how much I had to pay in the past 8 years in non-German universities? It is a number you can't start to imagine in your almost academic brain. Plus, you can have as much as Paella on your plat for 80 cents, which is the most convincing argument for me, to stay in this school. Go away and let me stay semi-conscious.

"OK. I have classes. I've got to go." -- I've actually got shit to do, and you guys are striking because others are doing it.

Lady's room is fully occupied around "o'clock"s. Girls are lined up in front of mirrors powdering their nose. (Yes, they are literally powdering their nose). And I saw a classmate of mine-- one of those woman who gives you their presence with a "bang". You are too polite to stare, but you don't know where to look anymore: long ginger hair, large black rimmed glasses, high boots and tie-dye sarong. You begin to imagine her being in a riot for woman's rights in the 60's or 70's; maybe she'd be phenomenal one day, someone who stands out to lead a revolution because you can easily recognize her from her long red hair. But something suddenly distracted your day-dreaming as she took out her organic make-up kit, took off her glasses and powdered her nose, relined her lips and checked her teeth. She was a couple of minutes late for the lecture, but I suppose it was totally worth it for that "bang."

I turned in a note for my boss, saying that up next week, I am not able to work on Saturdays anymore because I have a project to do at the school library from 12 to 19. She squinted at me and ask:"Is it gonna be long?"
"Just for a couple of months, for this semester."
"Put the note in my office," she said, and went on organizing cauliflowers.

Letter to a Tisorrel Fish

Jump in, the water is fine
you heard him say
you plunged in.
The poisoned water turned you into a piranha,
but you were my favorite fish.

The wizard cast a spell on you
but you had a choice,
in that split second
when your logic would have won...
you gave in
for wizard's charm was irresistible.

Without me, my dear Tisorrel fish,
you could have been flushed down the sink,
the reward for saving you from the whirlpool is,
your teeth dug into my skin.

Maybe I should pull the plug
and let you drown;
I don't have to justify myself,
I shouldn't have to justify myself.
My hand are clean,
my conscious is clean,
and I don't belong to the business
between you and the wizard,
nor the war between him and greed.
I have been nothing but a saint,
play fair, Tisorrel
because I don't have to be one.

Note on November

I sat at the cash register and the store was almost empty -- Monday night. I looked at my watch, 4 minutes had gone by since the last night I checked. I should just tape it like Emilia Fox did in the movie "Cash Back". After seeing that film with a friend of mine, we both got a supermarket job a few weeks later. But it seems so long ago now. I scanned through products mechanically, then suddenly someone pointing at a small six-pack funky milk and asked me :" It is healthy right? You are Japanese, this is healthy right?"

"Eh... sorry... what? I am not Japanese." Maybe I didn't meet an artist like Fox did, but there are certainly plenty of materials scattered around.

"Which brand is better for my sweater?"
"I don't know."
"Oh God, you know nothing!" A customer stormed away angrily. Some people can neither take honest answers, nor read.

"I want that frying pan on your special offer list. Can't you go and get it for me?" An old woman threw the ad on the counter. I had the urge to tell her that I was not her butler, and not suppose to leave the cash register. But I left and looked for the drying pan. Just because you are old, you don't have to boss around others. I fancied throwing the pan at her face:" Here is that fucking special frying pan!" But at the same time, I get paid by the hour.

Humid and chilly air appears to be tapping everyone's nerves. Twice had we almost an accident on the bus. An old lady fell as the driver braked abruptly. I was late for school. A professor of mine had a break-down in the middle of class because something triggered her. A passage that we read reminded her the misfortune happened this summer, she almost cancel the class and always felt a ghost following her. Lunch at the Mensa around noon is war. I decided to put 2 kg of risotto on my plate and checked out. A girl sat across from me had a big suitcase under the table, she put both of her hands on her ears, head down. I couldn't see her face. I wondered if she had been waiting for someone, who might eventually stand her up. If she was looking for a quite place to block out the world, Mensa is a bad choice. Maybe the person she had been waiting for was caught up in a series of strange events (Patrick Wilson in "Little Children"?) I had wanted to ask her if everything was alright, but I picked up my tray and headed for the dish washer.

There are more than a docent of leave letters at school, I am hardly ever bothered. I look foreign.

I love to dine near our huge aquarium under candle light. These moments remind me of everything what my distant biological family was and is not. Change is good, breaking a vicious circle is good, a full-of-love-prepared meal is good; life is good.

HALLO UNI.

Hallo Uni.

I just finished the first week of school. Sitting in the library and I wish I could just simply jam the books literally into my brain.

Monday:

The best day ever. The moment I was looking up to see where my lecture was, I realized that my Monday seminar actually starts on the 19 of Oct. So I crawled back to bed.

Tuesday:

I woke up with two pieces of chocolate -- it is my first day school and I was given sweets for that! Aw... I should just hop away to school:-)

The first class was "Time and the Lyric". We watched a short film about the best domino setting in the past 30 years and were told to pick up our reading assignment for the semester in the library print-out room. "It is not a lot," our professor said to us, "just the minimum for this semester. And the good news is: you can chose to write a Hausarbeit at the end of the semester or 3 essays through out the semester plus a short statement over a specific theme." I picked up the reading material the next day-- it is a 400-page double sited, in small print, A4-size band.

Oh yes, since I am taking 6 classes this semester, I've got 6 of those.

The next class made me want to hide myself under the desk. The professor spoke so fast that I wondered if she had just had coke. I wanted to use my cellphone to record part of her speech but I though it was rude to do so. She spoke with tons of philosophical terms, randomly threw in French, Greek, Latin, Italian, English (and other languages I wasn't able to recognize what they were) and sudden pause. "Is there anyone here who doesn't have the basic philosophy?"

I raised my hand, I was the only one.

"Ok, that is not the end of the world. Just ask if you don't understand any terms we use. For next Tuesday, please read the first assignment. I think Plato is a good start for us. (EXCUSE ME?) Is there anyone would like to read the text in Greek?"

(Haha, that is funny)

One or two raised their hands.

Oh...Is it not a joke? Never mind.

"I will bring the Greek copy as well. See you next week. And by the way, for these two books on French philosophy, there is no good translation yet in German. If you are having troubles reading French, that is just bad luck. I hope you can figure something out. Any questions?"

(Would you fancy me asking you questions in Latin?)

My last class for Tuesday ended at 6pm. Being able to speak a few languages is NOTHING. I am sitting in the classroom with people who are doing their second PHD, speak 20 languages perfectly, citing Tynjanov in Russian and Kierkegaard in Danish.

Wednesday:

Shakespeare day. I sat in the back, hoping the professor wouldn't ask if any of us hadn't read all of his books. -- But what a relief: not only the prof. didn't ask the question on my mind, we don't have to read all the assigned books in German!

Thursday:

For the entire week, I had been having classes with more or less the same people, how come I know no one for the Proust class?

Oh... this is a so-called second semester class. The others have already read the first Volume of his work in the previous semester. We are to work on the second Volume in the following 3 months.

"Anyone here who isn't familiar with Proust?"

I was going to raise my hand, but she caught my attempt gesture and realized that I'd be the only one.

Fuck.

"You can do your work in German or French," she said, "but I'd prefer you all to read in French because there are things which cannot be translated accurately. And please read the commentaries on the list, especially the third one from Daria Galateria."

That one is written in Italian.

There are two classes in this Module and I have to choose one of them. Now I realize why the rest of the crew didn't come. The other class is Goethe.

Moments like this made me want to cry. I guess years of slacking finally caught up with me. It is a good thing I work in a supermarket, at least I don't have to talk to customers in ancient Greek.

This July

After a huge breakfast / brunch, I am waiting for the rain to stop so I can take a walk. My first German job at a dry cleaning place lasted only a week. They refused to tell me how much I would be making and told me that the work contract in dry cleaning business didn't exist. The owners look old, but not as old as the time when people needed no work contract to work legally in a store. So, that dry cleaning place is only dry, but not clean. Now when I think of it, the only phrases I remember were :" Don't think, just take that shit and put it on the machine. Faster, faster, faster."

Even though I was still in an unofficial position in the store, they were supposed to pay me. But they didn't, which resulted a trail between us just for less than 100 euros.

Thus, I am back to the looking-for-a-job status again.

As an atheist, I hardly believe in destiny. We had been looking for an apartment for ages, and either the flats were too small, too expensive, or in the wrong quarter. We bought a real estate magazine which comes out every Thursday, when we called on Friday afternoon, all the good apartments had been taken. At the verge of despair, through a friend of ours, we accidentally found an offer. This apartment is on the third floor and in a park. As our appointment was confirmed, we went to see the place. The owner showed us the heavenly apartment and at the end, he said:" Well, the only thing is, sometimes in the winter garden, birds can be loud." (Dear sir, do you have any idea where we live right now? I think we can handle the birds' chirping.) The owner told us that they had put the offer for almost 2 months, and we were the only applicants. As if the place had always been reserved for us.

Looking forward to start another new chapter.

Got a letter from uni. My documents have gone through for my Master's program. Now all I need to do is to pass a German text, then, say re-hello to uni. life! But if I failed it, I would have to wait for another year to reapply. I suppose psychologically I can't afford to push my luck for my German exam this time around.

July, I browse through my old writings from last year. Last July, I felt the change in the air, I wrote about the changes in such an odd month. And here I am again, repeating the hope, but with sobriety.

When the moment comes

When the moment comes,
everything is played in slow motion:
illuminating of the "walk" sign,
passengers lift their first foot to step out of the sidewalk.

As the moment continues,
blood flow takes a pause,
feeling the uneven surface of the armchair,
fuzzy texture of the blanket;
a plastic decoration in a Sushi place looks
like an African fish with eye infection.

Slightly passes the climax,
the red stain at the bottom of a glass triggers
my urge
to venerate
my urge
to sift open the gate and release my red army
the trace of them marching through is still visible,
but the gate has been sealed for a long time.

The dusk of the moment,
any given element has lost their charm,
the fish decoration in the restaurant
has only big lips and eyes.
I hit the "replay" on the video I was staring at,
still dwelling on my red army,
waiting for the next moment to begin.

Morning Babel

Morning, espresso, newspaper. I call it morning only because of the time of day, not because I woke up. It is hard to define "wake up" if you don't sleep. I am expected to give a rational reason every time I am sleepless. There is none. It is not unusual people behavior illogically, especially when logic becomes subjective. "Everything will be fine, it ought to be better." These are subjective adjectives I hear ( " I find no solace in your poor apology"). Grateful for the roof and the kindness, loving the one-hour long bus ride, sending out resumes like snowflakes. Communication means also convincing someone, one can be convincing, I can appear to be convinced. It is more the words and how you say them, more importantly, it is how you carry out your own words. ("you grow me like a evergreen, you've never seen the lonely me at all"). Unexpected is expected, once you've accustomed to what I have. Cellphones are invited so that people can talk themselves out of "situations" or rationalize whatever the irrational things they do more conveniently, so does alcohol. Some clichées are so true: silence is gold. Have you ever wondered why I try to sleep so early? We all judge people. We pay to be judged by judges. Pre-fer carries no negative connotation but pre-judge does. When someone with a mask rushing into a bank, are we supposed not to judge him/her by their appearance? It is a liquid line. When someone says others should not judge, is the speaker judging the "other"? It is repulsive the way you walk. I am not doing much better, it is not a good reason for doing the same thing. But it is legitimate. A demanding occupation is necessity, so that I can stop focusing on others' vice, so that others' scorn would abate. We are not at the same page, we fail to yield. Calumny might be white, but it is still a calumny. My absence is not on the list. My list is insertion of complete idleness.

1000 candles and virgin fairy tales' night

1000 candles and virgin fairy tales’ night
2 days without electricity in the apartment. The last time I spent the evening with candles dated back to my high school years, when a couple of days a month we had no electricity. Everyday there was someone in the dark because of the power shortage. Certain districts’ power was cut off so that we could pull through an entire year. When the power was out, water was out too. People then stood in line with their family members carrying all the containers they could find, in front of wells, pulled water directly out of ground like in the movies. We has no gas line in the house, that is to say dinning out, sitting on the roof afterwards and watching the stars. We did our own things until it was bed time; doing homework in candle light was a monthly rite. In the winter time we buried ourselves under mountains of blankets; summer time we waved our hands in the air chasing away mosquitoes. I loved it when the power was out, it meant that I didn’t have to bear my mother’s cooking. I saw the news when there was a black out in New York. I couldn’t decipher what was special about the fact, made it on breaking news; until after living in developed countries for a few years, where power supply is constant and there is heating or air-conditioning in most of the closed areas. My mother was surprised that I wore only a pullover in the middle of Winter in my university.
It has been almost a decade since the last time the electricity was cut off in my flat. I realize how much power dependency I’ve developed. I sat in the cold (well, I had to say that it never gets this cold where my high school was) and dark room, and I asked myself:” What the fuck am I supposed to do now? Soul searching?”
I lit a bunch of candles and read newspaper, while fearing the newspaper would catch fire( and everyone’s nightmare that I’d burn down a house one day would finally become true!) We used a lighter to light up the gas oven and stoves, we left them running all night long so that we don’t end up to be ice blocks in the morning(it is –3°C at night), we cooked and dined under candle light, not for the romance sake; we had no hot water on the tap; the washing machine was on when they shut off the electricity, so there was plenty of water left in the machine, and when we finally opened it and took out all the laundry, the kitchen was flooded.
The story is: the electricity bill had always been 40 euros a month until last November. For no particular reason the cost was raised and we got a bill for over 1000 euros stating from November to January. The power company asked for a partial payment with the deadline of Feb. 4, I transferred the payment at the end of January then our lights were put out on the 2nd of February. It felt like something only Homer Simpson would do: laying back in the control room and all the sudden felt like pushing some bottoms. (If you feel like pushing bottoms, buy a Gameboy and exercise your finger muscles on it. Stop pushing mine!) The next day we had lawyers on the phone, asking the Company to verify the bill and payment -- it made no sense to randomly cut off our energy even though we had paid. They refused to negotiate, so we had to go for a trail. There would be no restitution if we win, we would get our electricity flow again. I thought Homer would be questioned and soon the light should be back on again, but I later realized that the law suit was between the user and the company, which is not as simple as I thought, imagine if we have to sue Mr. Burns.
The trail started running this morning at 8:30am, and we are still waiting for the results.
So back to the point, what can we do without electricity?
“I can’t sleep, can you tell me a bedtime story? Tell me a Märchen.”
“Go to sleep.”
“Come on, I never had that experience. No one ever told me bedtime stories.”
“Ok. Once upon a time there were 3 ugly sisters. Then one day came a step sister, who was absolutely gorgeous. But the 3 sisters were really mean to her and made her work in the kitchen all the time. One day, there was s huge party in town, and the prince was coming. All the citizens joined the party besides the step sister, who had to wash dishes in the kitchen. After hours and hours of partying, everyone was drunk and passed out, the Prince came to the kitchen for some hot bread. Then he saw the step sister and fell in love, and they lived happy ever after.”
“What happened to the bread?”
“What?”
“What kind of bread was it?”
“Why don’t you ask me what was the name of the bread.”
“Did it have a name?”
“…”
“Tell me another one, for example, what happened to the woman with long hair?”
“That sounds like some criminal series. I don’t know what happened to the woman with long hair.. an accident?”
“No, maybe, I don’t know the story. A woman locked up in a castle and she’s got long hair.”
“I don’t remember, I need sleep.”
“Last one, then we will go to sleep.”
“Fine. Once upon a time in a kingdom lived a prince, who knew a hunter that taught him how to follow animals. One day, the prince found a bear near a tree, so he climbed up the tree to have a better look at the bear. All the sudden the bear became angry and started shaking the tree like crazy because there was a beehive on the top of the tree and he was afraid that the prince was going to steal his honey. The prince threw the beehive at the bear and scared the beast away. Then the prince lived in this tree until today.”
“And then?”
“And then he found a princess who lived in the trees too and they lived happy ever after.”
“Why did she live in trees too?”
“ I don’t know.”
“Did the prince ever contact his friends again? Cell phone would be helpful to stay in touch.”
“He can’t have cell phones, no electricity in the trees.”
“Did they live in the tree house or just trees?…”
………

Note on the edge of Feb.

All the sudden I realize that I spend between 18 to 20 hours in bed. It has been about a year. My troubled sleep hardly troubles me anymore, for I have become an effigy. My neck and back are killing me. I stay in bed even I am not sleeping, the constant hibernating state has rooted. I barely have reasons to unwrap myself from blankets.

It is madness.

Sanity has been sifted from my sense; the time becomes dwindle while I am soaked in my sinuous mood. We raise the glass containing desperation and light a cigarette to provide a reason to continue breathing. My failure to curtail any vice, my surrounding is the catalysis to drown my idiosyncrasy.

It snowed last weekend. I took a suit to the dry cleaning down the street. As I opened the door, there was a blond woman picking up her dress and the owner ( a lady in her 70s') were having some friendly conversations. After the blond left the store, the smile on the owner's face disappeared. She tapped the table suggesting me to put down the suit there, ( A "hello" would be nice?) and she typed the price on the cash register and pointed it to me (that's right, that is not even a slightest chance that I could understand numbers in German). I paid, and she took the suit to the back. (Oh my God, I made her mute!)

And I have to go back and pick up the dry cleaning one day.

After spending so much time in solitude, any direct human contact is a glare, and a 30-minute bus ride a revel. I am losing the ability to articulate as my world is silent in long intervals. Then, through your breath I sense no hope. From time to time there are only lyrics of music waved my thoughts, as if I had lost my own threads long time ago. "I find no solace in your poor apology". You live off liquid and I live under a vault of your politicians' promises, with beliefs carved in me furtively.

My Midwinter night's dream...

was to get enrolled in the university this summer. I checked the study offers online, deadlines... all that necessary information on how to get a student status in Germany. The University says that the deadline for summer semester is on 15 of Feb. and the ones who want to enroll in a Master's program needs to apply to the school directly instead of going through a Agency who would charge you fees by your nationality.(no seriously they do)

Application season means paper snow season. I photo copied my documents, sent them in and waited impatiently in front PC. A few days later, I got two emails from the same university, one said that I would get an appointment from them for another German test, and the other said that they had forwarded my application to that money grabbing agency and there was no further action I need to take.

That made me feel somewhat better...

until...

I got a letter from the Agency last night, saying that I have a deficit of 25 euros and that my applications wouldn't be processed until I paid the fees and filled out another form from their website. I started filling out the form last night and since I had a few questions, I gave them a call this afternoon...

Greetings greetings blah blah blah

"Your application number please."
"79789709"
"You have a deficit of 25 euros, and this payment was supposed to on our bank account today, which means too late."
"I got your letter last night."
"I know, we are sorry."
"On your website it states that your office is open until 17H, which means I can still go there and pay the bill in cash."
"But the payment deposit closes at 15H."
"It is only 16:15, I can pay you in cash."
"We are sorry."

The letter was written on 17 of Jan -- a Saturday, then there came the weekend, so it was probably sent out on Monday. I got the letter on Wednesday night and the deadline was at 15H Thursday? And there is nowhere on their letter says that when the payment was supposed to transferred. I am not the one who runs the Post Office here, now would you want me to start a law suit with the Postman? It feels like you need a lawyer for everything, even just to register at some school.

I listen to you

I listen to you through my eyes,
as it takes you 30 seconds to unlock the door;
I listen to you through my nose,
as you breath triggers my rage;
I listen to you through my touch,
it's difficult for you to stand up straight;
I listen to your with my tongue,
your tears taste like martini.

And yet,
I keep listening,
until you crawl into bed
with assistance.
You say that I should understand your sorrow;
I wonder what is the point,
for you always choose alcohol before me.

Maybe there is a misunderstanding
in our circle;
I shall never be on the top of your list
as a console party.
Words, sometimes are just sounds we utter,
from time to time
I have the illusion that they actually have any significance.

I listen to you with my body,
it is your job to correctly interpret my gesture,
if you are ever
capable of it.

Muder the dead

I have taken a break from school; well, I have done with the private school because financially it became heavy, and I feel at some point, I'd need more intensive German writing sections in order to improve my German more efficiently, which means university (and I miss being an official student), for I can't learn it alone -- it is a question of discipline, or well... actually the question of the lack of self-discipline. 4 minutes after sending the application, I realized that I made a few mistakes on my application: I forget to check the options, which would show what paper I sent; I spent an afternoon translating 4 years worth of transcript and then found out I didn't need to because they are in English, and I forgot to send a copy of my ID and other optional applications. It has only been a year since my last university application hassle, why everything seems so distanced and unnatural now? So I have been trying to call the school, the receptionist directed me to the head of the department, whose phone line was busy for 2 days. I am convinced that the person was having phone sex. Then, no one ever picked up the phone. Thus I will try to go there in person tomorrow ( the office is about 15 Kilometer from the flat) because the deadline for Summer semester application is in less than 48 hours.

Not only because I miss university life dearly, another more practical reason is : ALL of my job applications have been refused. I've been trying to get a position as an Intern in various newspapers and magazines. If they replied my email delivering the same the message: Thanks for your interest at the position, but your writing shows that your German level is not high enough ( no, literally they wrote that) for us, therefore we cannot grant you the position. Good luck in the future.

But I have to start somewhere!

The reason why I am comfortable writing in English was because most of my papers (academic or not) are (were) written in English. They were corrected, harshly red-marked, and I had to rewrite, rewrite, rewrite, above all, I was speaking the language 24/7, here, besides 3 hours of private class (from April to December), I hardly use it, in a professional level anyway, left me feeling not making any progress, as if my German had already been already fossilized and I can't let it happen.

"But German is hard, half of the immigrants speak less well than you do." I was told. But I am not that half of them, language wise we might have different goals, I can garantee you that not many of these "half" are working (or trying to work ) in German Press. My certificate is only good enough for the entry of university (if I ever get accepted somewhere), but for the professional writing, I still have a long way to go.

But I have to start somewhere.

Cross your finger for me, despite my mistakes in the application, I will still be accepted for a M.A. in the university here. The result is going to be revealed at the end of May or the beginning of June.

All of those, for that one day, I can work as a journalist. A friend of mine told me that it was a great choice, because I would be able to "Speak up for those who can't speak for themselves"-- ideology of journalism, but some of those people don't want to be spoken up to. Case in point: my mother is letting the Predator moving into her apartment, it is illogical and sickening. I am troubled by some gruesome dreams since the day she shared the news with me. But they are not my dreams, they are my wishes. My mother wanted to speak to the Predator about consciousness but why? You can't talk about consciousness to someone who doesn't know what that is. Just like I wouldn't speak French to her because she doesn't speak French. It is a simple question of the capacity to communicate, and neither of them has any!

It is a lot more comfortable to remain as a victim, so all the rights of complain are reserved to them, it takes mental and physical effort to get out of victim costume, she is not willing to make an effort. She is ignoring all the human rights worker have been working for. As the Predator comes and goes, "Relax," says she standing at the door, "we are programmed to receive, you can check in and out anytime you like, and you will never get locked out."

Bravo.

There is one adjective in my mind: Sick.

As I lay in bed having another sleepless night, --- I am Picasso in Jeanette Winterson's "Art & Lies",I vividly plan out the killing process, but It is impossible to murder the dead.

Filing

"Mr. Aiden Sand, please tell us why you want to work for us."
"I like alphabet."
"And which qualifications do you have for the job?"
"I am good with the alphabet."
"Sounds great to me. I don't know about the others..." The interviewer looked at his colleges, who demonstrated no objection. "Alright then, so here is the contract, just sign your name ... here, you can start tomorrow."

Aiden had promised to call Sirra a week ago. He delayed it as long as he could. Eventually in a boredom saturated evening, he picked up the phone an dialed her number.

"Hey Sis."
"Oh finally."
"Happy New Year. How was the party?"
"Good. Did you get a job?"
"Yeah. A couple of days ago."
"Where?"
"In an office."
"What do you do?"
"Filing."
"Filing? Like filing...filing?"
"Yeah, putting strangers' names in a certain order, then pack them into a metal draw."
"Is it what you want?"
"Yes. The contract got me an apartment."
"Coming back soon?"
"No, not really."
"It has been so long. Some people are going to think you are insane."
"Some people think the Earth is flat."
"Oh yes, well... Paul kinda called. He wanted to move back in."
"No. That is a No-No."
"You are silly. He is still your official brother-in-law. So next time you call, there is a chance that..."
"I won't call anymore."

Aiden hung up the phone, felt him self being a prick, and yet compelled to do so. He couldn't bear hearing his name, any talk about him, above all, Sirra's illogical logic enraged him -- after so many years of domestic violence, constant bruises on her body, broken furniture, broken door and broken heart, Paul left without saying goodbye, then all the sudden, after 8 years of silence, he wanted to move back in because he had fucked up his life, lost his job and roof. Aiden loves his sister, it pains him to think of Sirra as a cheap whore, but if she is not, what is she? She has been a financial support for him, a family-member-turned-

acquaintant, an acquaintant who lately brings more frustration than joy.

Randomly threw on a coat, Aiden ran down the slippery street and buzzed the intercom of Nick.
"Hello?" A sleepy voice wailed out of the speaker.
"Is it me."
Aiden heard the door unlocked and went straight into Nick's kitchen, took a cigarette on the counter. "You know what? As I was walking to your apartment, the traffic light was green for pedestrians, some ass almost hit me and instead of apologizing, he went out of the car and shouted at me. Tipplers in the quarter are aggressive when they are awake, asking for small changes when they are half-asleep on the metro benches. My sister is crawling back to her predator because she couldn't stand the healthy life style for the past 8 years, her 'ex' is never in trouble with law for his behavior, and this is what we are supposed to have in a civilisation?"

Nick took a drag from Aiden's smoke :" You came over unannounced at midnight to talk about civilisation?"

"I don't know." Of course you do, it is not about a specific matter, any specific matter; but to everything relevant to what you actually give a damn. Like so-called freedom or democracy or gentilness, peer pressure, social norm...double-edged blades, use with caution. As a matter of fact, it is about the worthless confusion of such flaws, their flaws, according to your law, these endless pieces of small spikes deeply implanted in your lungs, it stings when you breath; you fear to breath, not enough oxygen flows into your blood, you wake up with foul mood --- the slightest alternation of absolute perfection would piss you off. Am I wrong?

"Black tea?" Nick asked as he set the tea kettle on the stove.
"Sure."
"It is a snowy New Year isn't it!?"
"Indeed it is..."