I am a master of words,
I stitch them together into an invisible net that I would throw at you at the least expected moment.
You shall choke and I'll watch you wriggle in your struggle to breathe,
I won't feel remorse. I don't do it for feelings of any kind.
It is my job. Mind you job, not even my vocation, I simply do it for money.
Good old money that divides me from you.
Good old money that allows me to look at you with contempt.
Who knows, maybe one day I shall decide to throw you the uneaten piece of meat that I kept on my table.
Enjoy. Savour it till the last drop of blood.
A line of words.
I threw it at a sparrow.
Look how I sprained its neck.
The last sparrow.
Did you know that sparrows died in Delhi because of those huge glass walls of the high buildings at the city center?
The news is unproven, but I did hear about it the other day.
The very thought of it made me feel proud.
A squirrel lost its tail - I cut it with the knife of my irony.
Who needs squirrels anyways?
They annoy me with the greyness of their banality.
The wings of the butterfly got smashed under the stone of reality that I threw at it.
It was an act of mercy.
An act of bringing it to the ground.
Didn't they teach us after all that everything shall perish anyways.
Stop dreaming. I order you,
for the destruction shall continue until the whole world shall be covered in pure geometry,
The ninety degrees angles of the skyscrapers of New York city.
The perfection of steel and metal construction.
The future I am aspiring for.
And one day even the sun shall succumb to the power of my flawless grid...
I stitch them together into an invisible net that I would throw at you at the least expected moment.
You shall choke and I'll watch you wriggle in your struggle to breathe,
I won't feel remorse. I don't do it for feelings of any kind.
It is my job. Mind you job, not even my vocation, I simply do it for money.
Good old money that divides me from you.
Good old money that allows me to look at you with contempt.
Who knows, maybe one day I shall decide to throw you the uneaten piece of meat that I kept on my table.
Enjoy. Savour it till the last drop of blood.
A line of words.
I threw it at a sparrow.
Look how I sprained its neck.
The last sparrow.
Did you know that sparrows died in Delhi because of those huge glass walls of the high buildings at the city center?
The news is unproven, but I did hear about it the other day.
The very thought of it made me feel proud.
A squirrel lost its tail - I cut it with the knife of my irony.
Who needs squirrels anyways?
They annoy me with the greyness of their banality.
The wings of the butterfly got smashed under the stone of reality that I threw at it.
It was an act of mercy.
An act of bringing it to the ground.
Didn't they teach us after all that everything shall perish anyways.
Stop dreaming. I order you,
for the destruction shall continue until the whole world shall be covered in pure geometry,
The ninety degrees angles of the skyscrapers of New York city.
The perfection of steel and metal construction.
The future I am aspiring for.
And one day even the sun shall succumb to the power of my flawless grid...
