Ugly, bizarre, and more than just a bit naughty…
The “city2” anthology with the Beast inside is already in the bookshops… and on my desk.
It’s an extraordinary feeling, you know.
To hold in your hands a book with your name on it. And you will not understand this feeling unless you are a writer. It is like snowboarding from the top of Everest, it’s like playing didgeridoo on top of Urulu, like dancing salsa with Megan Fox …uh you can’t really explain that. You need to be a writer to get it.
It’s becouse writers are so much in love with themselves. They have so few joys in their miserable, lonely, artistic lives, that the only thing they actually enjoy is staring at their own surnames printed on the books.
It’s soooo cool.
A true writer, who holds his own book would not let it go… he would just hold it… hug it.
Kiss it. Stroke it.
Just read the fucking story!
Sea spits me out on the shore, as an undigested chunk of meat.
I hit the sand, inert as a puppet rag.
Pain still shakes me. I cough, in a desperate attempt to catch a breath, tremble, as cold gale slides on my skin. I blink, as the vision sharpens .
And there I am, casted away on the unnamed shore. Waves push to my feet plastic coca-cola bottle.
I kick it…and it moves. Smile appears on my face. For a moment I feel almost… happy.
I rise. And in that moment this awkward feeling comes.
I am being watched. I turn in an instant, spotting small, fluffy dog. It’s matted fur flutters.
Pet looks at me frozen. I kneel and reach my out my hand.
Come here doggy.. come over here…
Growl comes as an answer in a menacing crescendo. Dog bristles in a primal fear.
You furry fuck.
And there it goes, darting across the shore, as an arrow launched from a bow.
To hell with the little shit.
I go for a walk.
End of log