cup
Liza kept walking up the stairs to the attic. She was quite determined to steal the neighbours' large rubber boat that was big enough for six rafters. She knew that they keep the bat on the attic rafters. The question was where the hell the plug is and how could she inflate the thing again.
The big yellow van has towed the wreck of our sad little Trabant out of the bush and along the highway. That was a joke anyway to call that strange soviet vehicle a "car", but after the crash, it was so much like a toy sardine box that we couldn't help but laugh at our misery. We have just laughed and laughed until we were hit by a giant lorry.
She was strolling on the beach. What she saw in the water was a bottle with a message inside it. She had managed to grab the bottle and open it. There was a message indeed, the clumsy paraphrase of her favourite poem:
"This Is Just To Say
I have drunk
the wine
that was in
the bottle
and which
you would probably
drink
with pleasure
Forgive me
it was delicious
so dry
and so bold."
The Hell's bell is a cute, shiny still horrible little thing. It hangs on a beautiful red velvet ribbon above the head if the damned soul. And when this poor spirit finally is getting a peace of mind or would become almost reserved with its situation, this tiny freak of an instrument starts to ring with blaring, unstoppable, infuriating sound.
Then pain illuminated his mind with a sudden, bright white light, burning out everything else from his consciousness. Nothing existed, only pain. Soon, he didn't exist either. And so the pain has ceased.
The circus has started to awake. It was a new day, and the director was reflecting on last night's show over a not so "damn good" cup of coffee. It's a commonplace fact that the sector has been declining for a very long time, but he felt the anachronism of the whole thing painfully in his bones. This legacy has gotten harder every single night.
I wonder what the plot of my first novel would be. I am not a social butterfly, I am not buzzing around people all the time so this novel probably would reflect that fact and my love of bildungsroman novels. In a nutshell, the plot of the novel would be the following: a strange stupid little girl is growing up all alone in a junkyard of abandoned toys etc. and developing her personality accordingly. Then one day, a bulldozer would come to destroy all that shit. So original, isn't it?
Pete awoke with a terrible thought: his life was stolen from him. And now, he is "living" in his sad, empty and purposeless shell of existence as a toilet brush holder. His so-called life is so full of shit!
The place was a pool of shadows. Odd shapes, mystical shades and gruesome umbras were lurking behind the altar. The chapel was so full of shadow-creatures that it would not be hyperbolic to call it the temple of incubi.
The general idea of the massacre was that Sisyphusian euglenids became fed up with being Sisyphusian. They wanted a meaning and a real goal for their life. They were tired of aimless phagocytosis and substrate-gliding. Time has come for them to be idealists and to start a real fuckin' evolution.
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