numbness of the opaque corner of Kafka

cities of capitalism prepetually allur people into laziness. accummulation of someone else's produce in the room, suffocating senses. laziness is like a black hole, it stops your senses from working in the way they are meant to. The nose skims the air, the eyes dazzling around the room, familiarity and habitual, they start to shrink into oblivion. according to the laws of evolution, the eyes would eventually diminish itself into a pore in the skull, numb and useless.

I have not been producing anything properly for a while. London life has consumed me, which I had been guiltlessly happy to embrace. To be social, according to the modern life, is to throw yourself out into this vast sea of people, laughing your heads off, or maybe dressing up in baby suits and dippers, lolling around sucking lollipops. Drink until your senses decided to loose their senses, and you can be euphoric. Alcohol is the ticket of escape.

And then, nurturing my hangover, I would have made 100 excuses to soak myself within the warmth of the duvet, submerge into dreamscape. In the dream, a sampleman came into my room, stood beside me and started giving me a message. He looked like some macho man in some second-rate porn, greyish short hair, with his tall and built physique hidden under the painfully accute straight grey suit.



he started messaging my shoulder and neck, and then my ear. I had no insentive to resist, then he bet over and kissed my neck, ever so softly. I missed him, and decided to find him at his office. A garage with greasy floor and smoke oozing out of a car's front lid. I turned a corner and found a small desk full of my possessions - my pencils and notes and corroded alloy steel pencil case. A girl with long hair tied up behind her head came over and handed me a bill. She obviously knew something between the sampleman and me. She laughed hyterically and said, 'you have stored your stuffs here for 3 nights, i'll have to charge you.' and she said down opposite the table over a roll of thick wire mesh. I looked at the bill, '£ 56' it says, with all small items listed above, all blurred. I hope he'd come and see me. I have this eagerness inside me. £ 56. I'm broke.




small details of life are easy to forget, like Mid Autumn Festival. Lanterns and mooncake, I do not see them anywhere, so I'd assume autumn has never came. We are cosumed, at the same time, by these small details, what to wear how to hold a glass in vogue, where to eat, who to seduce. They ARE the propositions of how to live a life. people write books about it, orally pass on ettiquete and small tips. We are more than welcomed, at 4:16 of 26th SEPT 2007, to eat as much as you want as long as you have a handful of pounds. Consume regardless of the ozone, regardless of your laziness.

To talk about laziness is to provide evidences of the non existence of architecture. A habitual act: to live. habiter. where? a house, room, behind doors and windows and walls. end of story. Whatever variations these architects do, they are just wankers, all they could achieve are DOORS, WINDOWS, and WALLS. fuck victorians and edawardians and Baroque. This moment, 57, 693 individuals are digging their head down staring at the crooked pavements as they walk and found a coin they could use for their next consumption. Where are the architecture?

Even I seem to have forgotten.



London bus drivers are agents used by the London Government to fuck up the working class. They could decide not to stop at the station they are supposed to, leaving 10s of people standing for another 20 minutes under the chilly rain; they could also stomp at hte brake and break a couple of neck every now and then as they dictate the locomotion of the bus and lives and 100 passangers. They could NOT care less.

Everytime I'm managing my bills and cards with the bank or the university or TFL, i'm a living dead in the skull of K. The opaqueness of the bureaucracy demand that you have a lot of time and patience before you could reach a bit higher. We are all living in THE CASTLE, where we move from inn to inn, imagining ourselves moving closer to the castle and getting your existence recognised, but whop! that's only your wishful thinking, London has never needed you, and you are as tiny as the trash afloat in the Thames. Look, there's Ken Livengton, looking like a DAZ detergent barrel floating under millenium bridge. Dark Vader's Mask... give me a break.

yesterday I hated London, I think I should leave and go somewhere else. Somewhere where your quality of life is worth the money you spend; somewhere where your dream could still go as close as becoming reality, somewhere where you could live a life you have wished to. That should be my EVILAND.