Typical

Yesterday I developed a touch of nerves when I realised all those I considered friends were leeches who wanted to suck me dry. Since renouncing luxury, I've been hopelessly alone and have, on several occasions, relapsed into pretending. On Saturday night I dressed in bright colours--like a paradisaical bird--and danced with a girl who, through the fog of drink and muffle of noise, resembled the love of my life. I asked her to call me The Elektro King; she did. We danced strangely till the world disappeared. When I woke, after a night of forgetting, I was surprised to stumble upon my soiled clothes arranged in a symbol--an admittedly sloppy Helm of Awe--upon my living room floor.


I had to use all my socks

As I made my own tea, I wondered if the man who created this symbol--that damned Elektro King--was pretending or possessed: this seemed to me the fundamental difference between idiot and artist. I thought about it for a moment and wondered in which camp I should place myself before growing enamored with my chocolate-coated biscuits and staring blankly out the window.