missy messing up

- berlin calling soundtrack.
- Mon is a carrier of cruel truth, which she seems to read from my consciousness after my story sketched in just a few sentences. at times all I want to do is to close her mouth with my hand.
- my mother knows my flame. against her upbringing, her habits and all her will, she let my love for women find its way to her awareness. (still, the final remark had to come: "but... that Simon guy... what about him?")
- the belle époque woman embraces.
- the real time woman is being released from my arms.
(however, the two of them are not to be treated as alternatives. two ever so different stories.)
- putting on weight. sweet pastry = comfort.
- for a moment I'd have rather been blind and deaf, only to be able to ignore how things get screwed up, be able to believe we're gonna make it.
- facing severe lack of data I didn't want to make any decision at all. then I provoked events that brought data filled with guilt and meaning. that's already something, huh.
- the height of August, falafel, hummus and ayran on a warm, Sunday street.
- one of plentiful good points of the W city is that you can wipe your tears and blow your nose with it; you can walk away your grief and crying, the city never ends, your sorrow inevitably loses with its hugeness.