There cums the neighbourhood.

The other night me and the girlfriend were reliving shared but separate childhood memories by re-watching The Neverending Story. It was a spur of the moment type thing, so we got started rather late. As we were approaching the half-way mark we found ourselves getting the mid-night giggles. That stage of tiredness when everything seems rather funny. We were chatting in hushed and clipped tones and having a laugh at how poorly some of the elements in the movie had aged. During this most pleasant of times we get interrupted by a loud banging on the wall followed by an equally loud yet muffled voice. - "I'm actually trying to sleep!" Or something to that effect came pouring through the wall we share with this apparently grumpy denizen. Most rude. That I had been forced to overhear said person have loud and obnoxious mid-day sex just a few days prior is of no concern. Apparently. Clamorous Afternoon Boinking - Perfectly acceptable. Average Nightly Conversation - Horrendous. We weren't having a rip-roaring booming time, with rowdy cheers and boisterous applauds. The volume was in every respect, reasonable. A bit too reasonable even. Had it sounded like twenty-odd burly men performing heavy construction in the middle of an ongoing party as a gaggle of geese were set ablaze for the party crowd's amusement I should think my keen and sharp neighbour would have hesitated before bothering me with information on his sleeping habits. The silly git. The addition of the word "actually" in his improvised and analog cross-domicile radio theatre opens up a whole other level of  possible interpretation. Did he actually expect us to know that his and our headboards were adjacent? What then must be his point with such rambunctious three o'clock sex? I dare not speculate any further into such perverted goings-on that must be...going on. I quite often over-complicate things. He's probably just a self-centered asshole. Which is an interesting idea, in and off itself.

This Intensely Precious Thing.

That warm feeling of empathy is re-entering my life for the first time in quite a while. An unusual feeling reserved for a precious few. It's deliciously enticing and alluring. Tasty in its sheer humanity. My imagination runs rampant. I start fantasizing of crawling in under the covers of a warm bed, pressing up against the soft skin of someone special. Is that you? Why yes, I do believe it is. Hearing you cry makes me happy. It's peculiar, I know. The intimacy I felt was incredibly palpable. An emotional telepathy that choked me up. Going into my chest, stirring up everything. Giving me the resting heart rate of a serial killer. Every beat whispering a thousand promises. Who thought this one event  could contain such a dignified and yet intensely vulnerable beauty? Another one of life's interesting contrasts I suppose. I'm not a poet, nor am I a genius. So I do not know if I will ever be able to aptly express the complexity of the joyous emotions you instill in me. They are at times overwhelming. They wash over me with a force so strong that I have to grasp for sanity. Even though I do not want to. I need to be in full possession of my faculties if I am to match you. For all its strength it is also giddy, delicate and fluttering. Like a midget's toes pitter-pattering across a tin roof. I know I'm swooning, in the open and on the nose. Perhaps even pubescent in my attempts to phrase this as correctly as my senses allow me. I seldom get close to conveying what I truly feel. Never near giving words to the emotions that I harbor. Inside of these fossilized remnants of a romantic heart. But there is a tiny speck of living tissue left in there. Ready for a rebirth or resurrection. Like in Jurassic Park, or that one guy in the bible. Be my scientist, my lovely boffin. Your acumen is both shiny and new. Brilliantly bright, blindingly beautiful in your elegant intellect. Engulf me, despite my hyperbole. Thanks for all the things you meant to say. I sense them in the peripheral vision of my mind's eye. Hopefully you and I can pull them into full focus, together.

Inspiration.

Not my best work...

There are times when I run out of good ideas. Periods when nothing I can think of is up to snuff. Everything seems like half-baked drivel that isn't going anywhere. Certainly not towards that convergence of excellence. When enough good concepts come together naturally and make an incredible leap towards cogitation. The beauty of a carefully considered thought is what keeps me going. Or rather, the hunger for a return of that beauty. The key is not to give up. Not to pack it in until a new idea comes fluttering into your consciousness. Quality has its own agenda and time table. I run out of ideas every single day, and every time it's just as scary. I fear that I won't be able to return to my previous peak. I threat that I have used up the last good idea that will ever come to me. Worst of all that I've done so while cracking wise at some pointless seminar or meeting. Does this activity deserve my best? Good ideas should be, no must be executed. Convincing yourself that "I will get around to it when I have the right assets and can do it justice." is a bad habit. One I have engaged in on far too many an occasion. Over-analyzing and dissecting every minute little detail before setting about creating will get you nowhere fast. Those ideas and concepts do not stay around in your mind as an insurance plan, a resource you can pull out when times are tough. It eventually dawns on me that these perfect ideas I have in my head will never be as flawlessly performed in reality. You're bound to fail the first time you do anything. However, a good idea carried out poorly still trumps a brilliant idea never realized. What triggers me to create I do not know. But a certain person's ephemeral smile seems to be doing the trick lately. What is your source of inspiration?

An Ode to Odious Drinking.

Having fun with a rhyme for rum. Less and less glum. If only whisky would have told me, vodka is the only thing that can hold me. Sipping, drinking, chugging, heaving, burping, downing, gulping, pouring, puking, restarting. A cheer for more beer - hooray! That burning liquid hits your stomach with a splash. Squish squish, the start of a rash. It nestles up next to that half-eaten kebab. Pulling it close, pretty soon it'll come out your nose. Hugging the sides of your innards. Making room for wine. Don't worry about the double vision, you'll be fine. Stumbling about town, every stranger with a frown. Get out of my way lady! I'm looking for a clown. Good ideas when drunk, thunk with a handful of skunk. He's bound to be around here somewhere. Get out here, you son of a bitch! Hey, what's that itch? A billy club opening up a stitch. A crack, a rattle and a sound. Here comes the ground. Why is it called The Tank? It's not even partially filled with liquid.

The Joy of Words.

Every little word fascinates me. Fills me with ideas and images that make up my mental mindscape. Why does a word fit in a certain place and not another? How come just the sound of things intrigue me? And I'm not talking about the rules we all follow according to proper grammar. It's more a psychological thing, I'd say. When a well constructed sentence finally reaches its conclusion I feel like I've been on a little ride. - "Wheeeeee!". A soothing cathartic feeling washes over me. The core of this feeling probably has to do with the ideas that are conveyed. I'm always craving a nourishing exchange of ideas. But what turns them into something extra scrumptious is the way in which these ideas are delivered. The yummy coating that makes the healthy thought go down smooth. Words that aren't just used to obscure the truth. Infotain me baby! All this makes me feel a sort of joy. The anger that I often carry around on a regular day disperses right then and there. Where does all the hate go? When someone makes me a better person I love them for it. I just hope I can repay this elegant favour in kind. Too bad most people are God damn morons. The next guy who tries to talk to me about football or some such meaningless activity is getting punched right in the penis! I do not demand intelligence or even wit of others, as I have precious little of these commodities myself at times. I just hope for an eagerness to learn and thoughtfulness in all situations. - Cuteness, I'm quite smitten with you but I don't dare say it yet.