My home Norderstedt

I lit a cigarette again on a quiet, lonely morning on my way home.

The town was asleep, except for taxi drivers taking the drunk back home–fast because they were at 100 km/h on the empty main road. The Pall Mall gave me a foretaste of what will come next in my life. However, it tasted good, which meant I was sad and conscious enough to relax and breathe.

I’m forgiving enough to smile at my hometown. My hometown is only wonderful when everyone is sound asleep. That’s when I have its goddamn attention. Do you know what it’s like to feel sober without having drunk, done drugs and having had an anger outbreak?

You’ll know what I mean when you surrender to the tranquillity of this little town and the smell of the misty morning air.

I just take a drag of my Pall Mall cigarette.

The jaded subconscious climbs upon the shoulders of my fatigued self, though without bad intention. The truce between good and evil evokes a string of wakefulness. All you do is walk with confidence and determination.

How it should be. Moments like these often last for three minutes. Cherish them, please.

Think about lonely riders like Kerouac, Böll and Thoreau and how they had made sweet love to these moments.

If free will and freedom don’t existent, you’ll know that they lack imagination. The never-ending road in our heads surprises us every day whenever we decide to hitchhike on it. Some people are too lazy to walk or explore. Some are too scared to risk their stability; they don’t want to lose track or be alone.

They stop in the middle of the road, build a house at the side and invite me in. The house feels warm yet doesn’t feel right to me. They use a stop sign as a doormat, indicating that it ends here. Yet everything is ok because they are smiling, holding hands, kissing. It’s only me who decides to continue exploring the road.

I’m in search of a machine gun.

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