[ the garden of forking paths ]

I’m having weird nightmare dreams in which an entire village of faux-medieval peasants are running and screaming and swearing and chasing after me, waving their pots and pans, probably with the intent of turning me into caramel stock for their yearly mayday celebrations. But when i awake, all is well.

-Stoically, I prepare my breakfast meal: traditional japanese rice (with raw eggyolks chucked into the mix), put the kettle on, make myself some tea, read the papers, listen to Uzbekistan pop while getting dressed and ready, brush my hair, clean my teeth, drink my tea while staring out the window as the morning-dark slowly vanishes and gives room to just another nordic winter day, the building-site men nearby rummages about down there at the other side of the road, joyfully clanking their tools and buzzing their blowpipes, the big bangs of cement rubble falling down into the dust and going to pieces, the grace of the big electric crane as it swerves and slowly lift the gigantic pieces of concrete and steel onto skeletons of future buildings, beautiful stripped-down structures as silhouettes against the sky, the first shy strains of morning sun hitting the blank glass-surfaces of car windows and making small dots of sun, gleaming, reflecting, lighting up the grey, lighting up life.

-I get my bag, my keys, closes the door behind me and gets ready for another day in the anthill-parade.