Monday, December 15, 2008

Part Won

"Hopefully you'll make something out of your life."

Then how much is my life worth right now? Is it measured by what I contribute to society? How much money I make, what great things I have accomplished? How much I give to the poor or how I help others?
Is it measured by my health? Should I be strong and lively, full of energy?
By what I know perhaps? By books and theories, streetwisdom and empathy?
By friendship? How many friends I have? How quickly I come to their aid? How much I give them and how grateful I am by what is given back? By how much I care for my family?
Or is it measured by love? How much love and sacrifice I give, equally measured by what's given back. How much he wants me, wants to kiss me, dreams of me.
Or all of the above?

How much is it worth right now?

Monday, October 13, 2008

Part Tree-Tree

October 14th, 2008 is a day where a 'channelling medium' called Blossom Goodchild (of all names) predicted that a large alien spacecraft will appear and will be remain seen for 3 days, while radiating an extraterrestrial love-pulse throughout the globe.


She already has quite the following, and the fun part is: tomorrow we know if it's true.

I've been reading about it online, and this anonymous post was the best one, I swear:

Whether or not there is a sighting on October 14th, we are very close to the Day of Declaration, in which these "aliens" reveal themselves. There have already been increased UFO reports around the CERN collider.

I have had a lifelong interest in UFOs, but eventually came to recognize that while these beings claim to be benevolent, they have other motives. Even before I accepted Jesus Christ as my Savior, I saw the usefulness of the "What Would Jesus Do?" test. UFOs do not pass this test. Would Jesus kidnap people and experiment on them without their consent, justifying such behavior by saying how bad humanity is? No, He would not. These beings claim to be loving and kind, but they have been here for a long, long time and have waited around to be useful until right now. I don't buy it. The Bible refers to an end times deception that will be so believable that the Elect would be deceived, if it were possible. These fallen angels/Nephilim will present all sorts of reasons why we should follow them (they will say that they don't want to be worshipped and that all religions are just misunderstandings of their messages, yada, yada, yada). Arm yourself now. Read the Bible. Pray to the God of the universe, Who died and spent three days in hell so you can spend eternity with Him. If you surrender to Jesus Christ, you will not be deceived by Satan's End Times lie.

Remember: If Satan showed up and said, "Follow me and burn in hell," he would not get many takers. Instead, he will pretend to be an "angel of light" and will say that he's all about peace, love and happiness--yet without worshipping Jesus Christ as Lord. Choose your allegiances wisely. God bless you!

What's wrong with people?

Monday, October 06, 2008

Part Tree-Won

I want to hear your voice. Your voice.

I want your voice that roots through the volatile carats
of playing clouds and children,
your voice who will sow the stars to my lips,
will steal the ground from underneath my feet,
your voice which hurts if happiness comes over me,
like a long sleep,
your voice which comforts when I have none.

I want to hear your voice. Your voice. I want your voice
of spinning cities filled with sun-less courts,
your voice which dresses me and quenches my old thirst
and your voice which stoned all the coolness out of me,
your voice which has cut me, man, as bread
and your voice who will salt my throat,
will pepper my puny mind with desire,
your voice which will tear open my lungs
and will waste the rotten gold of this tongue to passers-by,
yes, your voice which has collected bright lights
in this simple man, your voice which sings
or cries, your voice which teases
or loves, but still your voice, your voice, at least
a voice.

Part Tree-Zewo

Monday, September 29, 2008

Part Toe-Nain

Random Facebook status of some friends

... dead and broken
... is trying hard not to revert to zombie mode..braaaains
... is in 2.0
... needs a fucking cigarette
... is putting a hand out to people he lost in the past
... est à Paris
... is baking Kerupuk
... seems to be broken. Please contact manufacturer.
... told you so
... thinks there's love in the bodies of elephants too
... touched God in full explosion
... is looking for inner fucking peace
... is fucked
... is hungry for brainfood
... is in Lana Turner's villa enjoying Liz Taylor's company
... has issues with 'patience'

... thinks that life is great

Monday, September 22, 2008

Sunday, September 14, 2008

Part Toe-Sephenn

I'm dancing with the pink-lipped harlequin. We're in a field of poppies, burning bright. Sometimes he bites, he growls, he snorts haughtily, but I cling to his shoulders and try to keep in rhythm. In his diamond-patterned costume I assume he has knives hidden, but that's only a thought, we're swirling so fast I could never check. We stop. We step apart and look at each other. His disapproving glare puts tears in my eyes. I'm not a very good dancer, I'm not fast enough for him. I show him my picture of Madame Blavatsky and for a moment I seem to have his attention.

'Stand your ground chief,' the phantom ape says, 'stand your ground.'

He takes a knife out of his vest pocket and throws it at my feet.
'I'm not a saint', I say, 'and I can be a coward at times, unable to move.'
He looks at me, puzzled. I keep talking.
'I can be very forgiving, but I don't easily forget. And I'm edgy. I'm too sensitive. I pick up other people's moods too easily. I require lengthy explanations for things that shouldn't be explained in the first place, and yet I still wonder what is going on. I hear something, twist it around and then twist some more until I can't sleep at night and start shaking. I'm not acting very confident. My brain doesn't function like other people's, and that I experience things differently, so naturally I turn to others for guidance, and I trust, I believe, I dive in, but what if they're wrong? I'm a taciturn man, I'm an observer. I notice little things and changes around me. I skip the bigger picture and focus on the details. I'm mindful of the way things are said. The tone of voice, the matter in, the choice of words, details that are left out, but I can't trust my observations. They're coloured, I project too much into them, it all turns out clumsy and ambivalent. There's no more black and white left, everything's gray and shrouded. No more clear options, just choices you make to get to the next day. The grounding's gone. No words etched in stone, just acting on impulses and spilling out random thoughts. By every choice I make right now, my entire life changes. All I have is myself to rely on ultimately, and I can't trust my own twisted version of subjective reality. It is your fault, isn't it? You are doing this to me. These little games you are fond of playing.'
The pink-lipped harlequin takes the picture of Madame Blavatsky out of my hand .
'Are you going to take that away from me? You can't, you see. I need that picture. I was just showing you so you would understand. So you would see her eyes and understand. She knows and she's always looking. She can see right through all the chaos and nonsensical rubbish. Without her looking I'd be lost.'
He grins, folds the picture and puts it into his vest pocket.
'Naturally. It's all variations to the same theme. I'm going now, someone's waiting for me at the edge of the field. At least, he said he would. I sometimes doubt he will, but that's another story. I'm still going. Please give back the picture.'
The pink-lipped harlequin turns away his head and I silently start marching to the end of the field.

Thursday, September 04, 2008

Distant Voices: Friedrich Nietzsche

Let us face ourselves. We are Hyperboreans; we know very well how far off we live. “Neither by land nor by sea will you find the way to the Hyperboreans"—Pindar already knew this about us. Beyond the north, ice, and death—our life, our happiness. We have discovered happiness, we know the way, we have found the exit out of the labyrinth of thousands of years. Who else has found it? Modern man perhaps? “I have got lost; I am everything that has got lost,” sighs modern man.
This modernity was our sickness: lazy peace, cowardly compromise, the whole virtuous uncleanliness of the modern Yes and No. This tolerance and largeur of the heart, which “forgives” all because it “understands” all, is sirocco for us. Rather live in the ice than among modern virtues and other south winds!
We were intrepid enough, we spared neither ourselves nor others; but for a long time we did not know where to turn with our intrepidity. We became gloomy, we were called fatalists. Our fatum—the abundance, the tension, the damming of strength. We thirsted for lightning and deeds and were most remote from the happiness of the weakling, “resignation.” In our atmosphere was a thunderstorm; the nature we are became dark—for we saw no way. Formula for our happiness: a Yes, a No, a straight line, a goal.

- The Antichrist

Wednesday, August 27, 2008

Distant Voices: Ophelia

You must sing 'A-down a-down, and you call him a-down-a.'
O, how the wheel becomes it! It is the false steward, that stole his master's daughter.
This nothing's more than matter.
There's rosemary, that's for remembrance. Pray you, love, remember. And there is pansies, that's for thoughts.
A document in madness! Thoughts and remembrance fitted.
There's fennel for you, and columbines. There's rue for you, and here's some for me. We may call it herb of grace o' Sundays. O, you must wear your rue with a difference! There's a daisy. I would give you some violets, but they wither'd all when ... they say he made a good end. For bonny sweet Robin is all my joy!

Monday, August 18, 2008

Part Toe-Siks

How horribly unjust of me would it be to categorize a man who crosses my path called Doctor J. I wish I was more like Lord Henry who said; "I choose my friends for their good looks, my acquaintances for their characters and my enemies for their brains, and consequently they all appreciate me." Let's say he's a kindred spirit, very much different from myself. We met online, myspace I think, which leads to an interesting train of thought. It often happens that the real chances in life occur in such an inartistic manner that they almost shame us by their absolute incoherence, their absurd want of meaning, their entire lack of style. They affect us just as vulgarity affects us. They give us an impression of emptiness, and we revolt against that by charging it with meaning. Sometimes, however, a chance encounter that has artistic elements of beauty crosses our lives. If these elements are true, the whole thing simply appeals to our sense of dramatic effect. It becomes a play, and we are both spectators and players. We watch ourselves being watched by the other and the mere wonder of the spectacle enthrals us.

We risk reducing our friendship to the memory of a single encounter. It could become stout and tedious, and all talk could go at once into reminiscences. That awful memory! It's a fearful thing, and it can only reveal an utter intellectual stagnation. We should absorb the colour of life, but never remember its details. Details are always vulgar.

Put in a crude way, it's all in the bigger picture.

Jason, cheers.

Monday, July 21, 2008

Part Toe-Won

Ba.Sha's Heresiological Cabinet

Ba.Sha. is an artist's duo consisting of the two young Belgians Noah Aspen (25) and Esther Staubach (24). During the summer of 2008 they decided to start a small artistic project together. Although they both have a literary background, they decided on putting their hands to use, handling objects to infuse them with their own ideas, meaning and by their own words 'pimp' them. Their objects of choice at the moment are items of by Catholicism inspired 'kitsch'. Religious paintings, crosses, statues of the Virgin Mary, and so on. They plan to form a collection embracing a common theme among the transformations, calling it 'Ba.Sha's Heresiological Cabinet' . Current pieces (in progress) include titles such as 'The Worshipping of an Unknown Infant, accompanied by St. Joan and St. Butch', 'Neustra Señora de Hollanda' and 'St. Barbie Crucified'. It could be seen as a form of mockery of Catholicism, which it is, but as the artists see it, it is also a higher and lower form of producing art. They say it's not meant to be seen as art, it's just a lark, but also that their almost intuitive transformations of the objects are of consequence. It is what happens when two atheists are charged with bringing meaning to religious artefacts. It is seen as a great distrust in religion and radical doubts of the knowledge of what is traditional. They create a new aesthetic code for these pieces, derived from the fleeting culture of modern day consumption, academic knowledge and mythology, technology and craftsmanship.

Although it's highly unorthodox, they allowed us to take a picture of a work in progress, for which we are granted permission to publish. Although it is expressed that it is not nearly finished.

Ba.Sha. -The Revery of an Unknown Infant, accompanied by St. Joan, St. Butch and St. Barbie

Wednesday, July 16, 2008

Part Toe-Zewo

I'm on a field covered in poppies, burning bright. I'm walking through it, on my bare feet, hoping that a snake won't bite me. By hoping I mean saying to myself that if there would be a snake, the chance of it biting me in the toe would be minimal. Contrary to Eurydice, I don't look back. If I move forward just a bit, past the scarecrow, I'm in the clear end where the farmer already collected his crops.

- rent
- new address
- scholarship
- pharmacist
- optometrist
- paint & brushes
- writing room
- meeting for novel

There is no hat on my head. No protection against sun, wind, bad hair and various hair-loving bugs. I'm domesticating. I wake up every day at sephenn, take a shower, brush my teeth, pick out clothes and read the newspaper (now the news is mostly about our failing prime-minister and tensions between two parts of the country) while I'm eating cereal. I feed the kitten, pet her a little bit, kiss my sleeping prior goodbye and I'm off to the factory. My mornings are variations to the same theme. I need reassurance, a pet on my back and someone saying; 'well done boy, welcome to the fold.' Why don't you go clean his socks and smile while you're at it. He deserves a pillar, a warm blanket and his martini.

I'm not very good at this.
The words gulping out of me are not my own. I speak blandness. I'm a bore. I snicker and snatch, no fun at all.
I apologize for having an opinion, I try not to.

Thursday, June 05, 2008

Distant Voices: Ophelia Benson & Jeremy Stangroom

A theory describing what occurs when we're asked to explain our ideas clearly.
Freud explained them. Whatever they seem to be about, they're about sex and wanting to kill people really. Except they're also messages from the Beyond or from extra-terrestrials.
A thing it is necessary to be on the cutting part of.
Brutal, violent intrusion of arbitrary material into the clean innocent heads of children, which should be left empty.
Important ethical principle. Something that is behind the times is very wrong indeed.
A thing you want with you.
Human Gnome Project
Most likely something to do with genetic engineering. Probably the idea is to create a new race of tiny human beings.
First name of various ideas that no one understands, least of all scientists, so it makes a great metaphor for chaos, complexity, relativity, randomness, Postmodernity, and just about anything one needs a metaphor for.
What Einstein had a very special theory of, which means that it's all, like, relative.
What to call a belief that perhaps is not terribly plausible or even possible but makes people feel special and magical.
A quaint, old-fashioned word, like bustle or barouche-landau or button-hook. No longer needed.

- Dictionary of Fashionable Nonsense

Wednesday, May 21, 2008

Distant Voices: Jack Kerouac

Give me another slug of that jug. How! Ho! Hoo! I've been reading Whitman, know what he says, cheer up slaves, and horrify foreign despots, he means that's the attitude for the Bard, the Zen Lunacy bards of old desert paths, see the whole thing is a world full of rucksack wanderers, Dharma Bums refusing to subscribe to the general demand that they consume production and therefore have to work for the privilege of consuming, all that crap they didn't really want anyway [...] I see a vision of a great rucksack revolution thousands or even millions of young people wandering around with rucksacks, going up to mountains to pray, making children laugh and old men glad, making young girls happy and old girls happier, all of 'em Zen Lunatics who go about writing poems that happen to appear in their heads for no reason and also by being kind and also by strange unexpected acts keep giving visions of eternal freedom to everybody and to all living creatures.

- Jack Kerouac's The Dharma Bums, chapter 13

Saturday, May 17, 2008

Part Won-Siks

"Don't worry chief, it will be alright."
last words of Rudolph Valentino, actor, died August 23, 1926.

Monday, May 05, 2008

Part Won-Fore

My thoughts tonight are with John Donne, George Herbert, Andrew Marvell, Saint Robert Southwell, Thomas Traherne, Henry Vaughan, George Chapman, Abraham Cowley, Richard Crashaw, Edward Herbert (1st Baron Herbert of Cherbury), Katherine Philips and Edward Taylor.

These people were a loose group of British poets in the 17th century, who shared an interest in metaphysical concerns. They were not part of a group or school, most of them didn't even know or read each other. They were just looking beyond the palpable and in them they all had a foreshadowing form of existentialism. As Georg Lukács, the Hungarian Marxist aesthetist, said: 'They were attempting to erase one's own image from the mirror in front so that it should reflect the not-now and not-here.'

They asked questions, that's what I like about them.

Does everything have a mind? Does everything exist in a mind? Can you step into the same river twice? Is space meaningless? Is there a God? Are there many Gods? Is it possible to know if there is a God? Does the Divine intervene directly in the world, or is its sole function to be the first cause of the universe? Are God and the World different or are they identical? It is impossible that the same quality should both belong and not belong to the same? Is there a free will? Are all things determined? What is the origin of the Universe? What is its first cause? Is its existence necessary? What are the ultimate material components of the Universe? What is the ultimate reason for the existence of the Universe? Does the cosmos have a purpose? Are we a futile bunch of poets and overly vague, or of no use entirely? Why am I writing this down in the first place?

You know, things we think about. I'm sort of obsessing over them and thinking about writing a very very long essay about them. Of course, overly vague and of no use entirely.

Wednesday, April 30, 2008

Part Won-Tree

"I'm swaying like a boulder suspended on a pebble on the precipice of a cliff. I might come crashing down, or just sway, rocklike."

I've been standing on the edge of the cliff for so long now. I must have accustomed myself to the danger of falling, slowly letting go of the survival instinct, the intrinsic fear of falling. The subtle, yet addictive thrill of the possibility of falling has become so great that I can no longer step away. But I am cautious, I only take one little risk at a time, one step closer every time, slowly allowing myself to get out of balance, just for a little while. It's not that I have the desire to fall in, I just have been standing here for so long that it no longer scares me, unless when I close my eyes of course. When I let my imagination take over.

Good old Ovid wrote an epic poem called 'Metamorphoses', drawing on Greek mythology. The poem's subject, as the author indicates at the outset, is "forms changed into new bodies". From the emergence of the cosmos from formless mass into the organized material world to the deification of Julius Caesar many chapters later, the poem weaves tales of transformation. The stories are woven one after the other by the telling of humans transformed into new bodies — trees, rocks, animals, flowers, constellations and so forth.

A fictional assembly.
Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
Objects in mirror may be closer than they appear.

We are indeed queer and quaint and all things that start with a Q, and we hammer like madmen, yet we wouldn't want it another way.

Step away.
Step away.
Step away.

Tuesday, April 29, 2008

Part Won-Toe

If we shadows have offended, think but this; and all is mended that you have but slumbered here while these visions did appear and this weak and idle theme no more yielding but a dream. Gentles--do not reprehend if you pardon, we will mend. And, as I am an honest Puck if we have unearned luck. Now to scape the serpents tongue. We will make amends ere long else the Puck a liar call. So--goodnight unto you all. Give me your hands if we be friends. And Robin shall restore amends.
- William Shakespeare, A Midsummer Night's Dream, Act V, Scene 2


Banality. Disbelief. Our trustworthy curtain of rationality that explains away our fears of the unknown but also snuff outs the spark of creativity that ignites into hope and imagination. Banality. The word that reduces the marvellous into the mundane, the miraculous to the ordinary and the inexplicable to the impossible. Banality. It epitomizes darkness, dreariness and relentless cold. Banality is the death of spirit. It clouds our minds to the wonders of the world, blinds us from the possibilities of making our dismal lives better. It imposes on us the belief that everything is the result of cause and effect. Evolutionary processes and entropic decay follow fixed patterns, and all things will eventually come to a grinding halt with the death of the sun. Banality is the wet blanket of the cosmos. Banality prompts a jaded parent to destroy a child's belief in Santa Claus. It forces a talented student to lay aside his dreams of becoming a great writer in favour of joining the work force because his advisors counsel him to make “realistic” decisions about his future. Banality is the end of dreaming.

We have left no place for dreamers. We destroyed amazement, it has become a commodity for the gullible and weak of mind.

Enough of that! Why should we not grant ourselves dreams and refuse reality? That is, this value of certainty in itself, which, in its own time, is not open to our repudiation? Why shouldn't we expect more from a dream than we expect from our consciousness? Can't the dream also be used to solve the fundamental questions of life? Who the fuck were my career advisors? Did they amount to anything great?

I dream of hearth and home, of wanderlust and adventure, innocence and play, passion and beauty, change and transcendence. I dream of standing tall, making people proud and seeing happiness around me. I dream of love, unconditional and deserved. I dream of busybodies, storytellers, tricksters, lovers and revellers.

I dream of finding the silver path and not walking it alone.

Wednesday, April 23, 2008

Part Won-Won

Teenagers put pictures of dead classmate on the internet

Turnhout - A group of Belgian teenagers put pictures of their dead classmate Paul Vanhoof on the internet. After the 14 year old died in a tragic accident his classmates were allowed to say their goodbyes in the hospital. More than one student took pictures of the boy with their cell phones and those pictures were deliberately put on the internet, without consent of the boy's relatives. The boy's family filed a complaint. "It's horrifying what people are capable of," father Louis Vanhoof said in another newspaper.

- Metro, April 23th 2008

Monday, April 14, 2008

Part Nain

Nostalgic Thinking in 5 artworks

Johann Heinrich Füssli, Nachtmahr

Bert Want, Titaanszoon

Jean Fouquet, La Vierge et l'Enfant entourés d'Anges

Pieter Paul Rubens, The Apotheosis of James I

Vincent Van Gogh, De Sterrennacht

Monday, April 07, 2008

Part Sephenn

A very merry unbirthday to me.
To who?
To me.
Oh you!
A very merry unbirthday to you.
Who me?
Yes, you!
Oh, me!

Let's all congratulate us with another cup of tea.
A very merry unbirthday to you!
Now, statistics prove, prove that you've one birthday.
Imagine, just one birthday every year.
Ah, but there are three hundred and sixty four unbirthdays!
Precisely why we're gathered here to cheer.

A very merry unbirthday to you, to you!
To me?
To you!
A very merry unbirthday!
For me?
For you!

Now blow the candle out my dear
And make your wish come true.
A merry merry unbirthday to you!

Wednesday, April 02, 2008

Part Siks

Character-Driven Confessions on the Couch, A Psycho-Analysis Exploring a Fictive Realm

What do you think of when you write about the Vampire?

Nothing. To me, he is nothing but a corpse. He leaves his grave at night to drink the blood of the living by biting their necks with his sharp incisor teeth and licking it clean with his anticoagulant saliva. He is nothing but an undead leech, an annalid worm but surprisingly timeless, eternal, unfaltering, flawless in his own imperfection. He is a methuselan patriarch with an endless stream of victims, but no offspring to call his own. He is an immutable void, does nothing but drain.

How about his counterpart, the Bride?

She is his opposite. While he exist freely throughout and out of time's bounds, she is firmly fixed. She can only manifest on her wedding day, ironically that's everyday. She is the feeling of excitement and mystery, remoteness of everyday life because she exists in only that sentimental, idealized way. But maybe, yes, I feel she is shrouded, in that eerie way, by her wedding veil which is like a membrane attached to her immature fruiting body and will ultimately rupture, or should rupture if she wasn't trapped in time. While the Vampire sees time as an eternal void with meaning nor consequence, it is everything to her and is faced with a pink tinge in her face at all times.

How about the other characters, the Pink-Lipped Harlequin for instance?

Well, I don't know. I don't know how long I can keep this up. Is it relevant, didn't I destroy, resurrect and wiped them away again? I suppose the Harlequin is, was, a demon in a diamond-patterned costume. A tormentor, the one to tickle my vices. A forceful, fierce and skillful agitator of cruel acts. He represents reckless mischief. He is always mute, but by his amusing and variegated chicanery a waterfall of possibilities. Pink-lipped, for what would an evil spirit want with a young man? Fool him into acts of sexual desperation. Rash and extreme behaviour, wild and abundant. Whipped into flesh-driven hunts at night, sheered into a frenzied ravaging and despoiling of what should supposed to be values. Theoretically, because he never did get a full hold on me.

I think that's enough for now.

I think so too.

Friday, March 28, 2008

Distant Voices: Mark Twain

The pause -that impressive silence,
that eloquent silence,
that geometrically progressive silence,
which often achieves a desired effect
where no combination of words,
howsoever felicitous,
could accomplish it.

Monday, January 28, 2008

Distant Voices: Rod McKuen

I have to walk at night and be with many,
and give myself to many strangers.
I don't know why.
I only know that people smile sometimes,
and I must smile back.
A certain eye, a smile, the way somebody walks,
I need mostly love.
Everything else must find it's place.
I need the warm touch, the unfamiliar smile,
the umbrella when it rains.
The head against the shoulder when thunder comes.
The unfamiliar touch, the knowing that someone loves me,
even for a little while.
You'll like my house.
The music's okay, the lights are nice
and I'm warm, you'll see.

Can you still go home with me knowing the way I am at morning,
might make you sorry that you did?
I mean, it's different for me in the mornings,
I'm not afraid of yellow sunlight,
or suspicious of rooms without music and atmosphere,
but things work best for me after 5 o'clock.
It's been like this always.
And you must believe I'll be good to you,
for me to work the best. I will, you know.
I will try so hard, for it's been so long since I had a woman
or a special friend.
So turn the corner with me.
Stay close.
Don't be afraid.
For there is no one else but me,
and I am warm, you'll see.

- Rod McKuen "Eros" Queer Noises 1961-1978: From the Closet to the Charts

Tuesday, January 15, 2008

Part Faif-Tree

I know a man whose name is Hermes Brighton. Some don't call him much of a man, they laugh behind his back and call him names. Never in his face though, he's too much of a storyteller for that. An he's kind. Not that his stories are elaborate tales, mostly just little titbits of information that promise a fascinating life. He's always involved with different people, doing different things, travelling to wherever he wants to, stories you could envy if you wanted to. Most people don't though, because behind these little tales they easily see how he really is; lost, confused, unhappy, without a goal, cliché.

I know a man whose name is Hermes Brighton. He is smart, fun, well-dressed and knows just what to say and when to say it. Behind his cool façade, people think there's a little boy desperate for reassurance. Those people are right, but they don't know the little boy inside is a mean little fucker who would stab your mother in the back just for a piece of candy. That little boy is a passive-aggressive whore.

I know a man whose name is Hermes Brighton. He has a lot of cool friends but no personality of his own. A social chameleon who just goes with the trends and sells out at every corner he passes. If you were to put him in a room by himself, he would simply stare at a wall. A man who thinks everything is fine. A man without an opinion. A man without initiative. A man without a soul.

I know a man whose name is Hermes Brighton. Sarcastic, twisted sense of humour. A man you want standing by your side if you want to feel better than others. A mystery of a man he is, a closed book. A man who pops up when you don't expect it and make your night feel just a little more dark. A venomous spider who spreads just the right amount of poison to make you feel buzzed. A man you wouldn't introduce to your mother because you know he will be bored and hate you, and maybe your mother might cry a little.

I know a man whose name is Hermes Brighton. He's just like the rest of us. He farts and has bad hair days. And he gets it. No bullshit, no pretending. A man who wears comfortable clothes on weekdays, orders pizza and watches bad reality shows. A man who can't straighten his own tie. An ordinary guy, doing ordinary things. A man you'd like but would never call.

I know a man whose name is Hermes Brighton. I haven't quite figured him out.