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Notes10/13/2020
Floyd
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Floyd
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Psycho Pyromania
No idea how long he's been in there, chewing coffee beans, crouching, cut off from the outside world, locked up in the confinement, in a critically claustrophobic constitution. The container begins to shake. It bubbles. He pulls at the hose, the connection to the black hole that will tear him apart, throwing him into a parallel world as mist, letting him loose on it. He begs. Braids. I'm sorry. I'm sorry for him. I do.
Pepper flies fleeing through the room, seemingly floating weightlessly, igniting. Air begins to blaze. Everything is a damp fire, fanning shimmering green glow from bitter burning herbs to flying sparks on burning beavers and bitter juniper bushes. The wooden house is turned into ethereal ashes by the genie from the bottle. I chew roasted coffee beans, spit them into the black cinder on my skin and see what happens.
Really I think grasses and mosses, whose tips can be seen in smoke and ashes, hardly bigger, however, than molecules of incense, which sparkle red like resins, vanish like distant stars, the silver stripes of the beavers glow, the pitch on the skin earthy coating, loamy eroding cracks.
No, he is not sorry, everything burnt, roasted, tarred, grounded and reborn in it, drifts away as a bitter layer of black ashes on warm desert ground.
At first the flames rage violently, apparently in the whole room, but soon the fire crackles more quietly and the fire smoulders for a good six to eight hours as a pyromaniacal daydream.
(With thanks to Deadsoul)
Pepper flies fleeing through the room, seemingly floating weightlessly, igniting. Air begins to blaze. Everything is a damp fire, fanning shimmering green glow from bitter burning herbs to flying sparks on burning beavers and bitter juniper bushes. The wooden house is turned into ethereal ashes by the genie from the bottle. I chew roasted coffee beans, spit them into the black cinder on my skin and see what happens.
Really I think grasses and mosses, whose tips can be seen in smoke and ashes, hardly bigger, however, than molecules of incense, which sparkle red like resins, vanish like distant stars, the silver stripes of the beavers glow, the pitch on the skin earthy coating, loamy eroding cracks.
No, he is not sorry, everything burnt, roasted, tarred, grounded and reborn in it, drifts away as a bitter layer of black ashes on warm desert ground.
At first the flames rage violently, apparently in the whole room, but soon the fire crackles more quietly and the fire smoulders for a good six to eight hours as a pyromaniacal daydream.
(With thanks to Deadsoul)
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