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first this; i'm sorry for possible misspelling, twisted humor, totally weird statements and random insanity in this thing.
The dead little duckling
You don’t believe in love if you have never counted the almost invisible little hairs on the left shoulder of your love. Even more, it is no use to do a rain dance from under an umbrella. With all this I do not tell new wisdoms but one may try. Two owls hunting, but when I take a closer look, they appear to be ducks. Where is the little duckling? It is dead. It is touching to say the least. Or am I exaggerating? The German language is a beautiful language as long as it is not spoken nor written. Don’t forget you’re hearing this from an anti-polyglot. One with a rather large knife in his back pocket that is. If I would ever choose a hobby, it would be skinning. The skinning of an accidentally found pedestrian in a gutter during a winter night. Could it be any more romantic? In my honest opinion: yes. But my lips remain sealed. However slightly penetrated by the godly tongue of my dearest love, my muse, my alpha and omega, my soul mate if you will. But I’m not telling names. Allah may strike my with thunder and lightning before I do so. I hate gossiping. I hate quite a lot now to think of it. God forbid that I would ever be completely engulfed by hatred, and mad headaches and the rusty nail I shoved not very gently in my eye socket. Twenty seven almost invisible hairs, I’ve counted them without my glasses. I want pureness, I want to unravel wild mysteries, riddles nature itself couldn’t know the answers of. If my hair should turn grey, I would cut it shorter than the average military haircut. Paint it? No, out of the question, I want to die colourless. I do believe in fairytales, but only if they have no end. I believe in a lot of things. I wish I would feel less butterflies in my stomach. I think it comes from the sickness and death inside of me. Two ducks who totally ignore my presence, such things drive me so close to a hysterical breakdown that I would turn blue in approximately seven seconds. People always think bad things only happen to other people. Some things never happen to me, because I don’t want it. Love sorrow? Not since I’ve been counting hairs and decided there is not much else I want to do. Lately, I’ve crossed a few borders. A French gendarme asked me: ‘Et?’ I answered: ‘Non’ That was enough. She let me through. That woman understood me. It’s not because a woman is armed and speaks French that one word isn’t enough for her. Come honey, please come to me, I’m home again and I hope I can stay forever? Don’t be scared, I won’t hurt you anymore, I’ve left my danger behind in places far away. Embrace me with the arms of a damsel into stress, that has suddenly become happy again. Unarmed. The misery is over, although the little duckling is dead. Don’t be sad. Let me feel your little hairs rise from desire to happier times. I’ll even speak German to you, just to make you laugh. Laugh that special laugh to make you relax, to leave all those troubles behind. Close that umbrella, there’s no stopping that rain anyway. I want to get wet and cold with you, due to the immobility that will mean pure love. Don’t pay attention to the calls of the owls, don’t shiver, ignore the smoke signals. Everything that is good is an addiction. The remedies are bandages on a wooden leg, cut from a tree that isn’t from this earth. A tree with branches where our souls will hang from. God watches it with one eye blind. The angels remain in silence. There is but one language that should be spoken and written and that is the language of the anti-polyglot. That is me. The ones who don’t understand me are requested to ignore my words. The little duckling is more beautiful than any other thing alive. Luckily it remains invisible.
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