3 Nisan 2011 Pazar

woo ooo

by Öykü Akın on Tuesday, 24 August 2010 at 02:41
there is dostoyovsky lying on the spare bed, brothers karamazov right next to Neil Gaiman, my man of stories. right next to it is a thick block of old paper written by an old communist,vedat turkali which i stole from my sisters shelf, laying under a dirty red dresss. There is Ballard book, crash, i haven't read a page yet and a crappy translation of the dharma bums from kerouac, a real pain to read. burgess is hangin around somewhere on the floor with burroughs and i just dont have the heart to pick all em up and put them away like i should. instead i am just letting them heat up the already sun drenched, monkey ass hot room, collecting dust and dirt, building castles while i sleep and the people inside them slowly turingn into impish creatures who hunt my dreams every other naked night. It would take me 5 seconds to put them all away on a shelf but they have a presence. It is an ultimatum, read em or leave em be and i leave em be, cause i just don't, can't, haven't had the necessary whatever to read them like i mean it.
so they stay.
and so, i dont tidy up my room.
and thus i bullshit to cover up for another random act of laziness. aint that some precious art?

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