I go to the airport cafe every night

I woke up this morning and felt like my soul was somehow leaving me.  Does that actually mean anything?  I had a strange, erotic dream about you the other night.  I almost forgot it entirely upon awakening but I was able to focus and recall enough that it now will always be with me. Of course I feel guilty about it.  How could I not?  But I always remember that real life moment of unparalleled intimacy and basso profondo.  His father ran the prison.  

I also woke up this morning to find the newest and first lengthy theatrical trailer for the upcoming James Bond flick Spectre to be watchable online.  Consequently, I proceeded to watch this.  Now, I am not nearly as massive a Bond fan and some of my close friends – particularly the oft mentioned Calvin Black who is essentially an encyclopedia of Bond lore – but I do enjoy many aspects of the series and have a fair few of the films in my cinema collection.  Despite my paucity of expertise I still noticed a few quaint callbacks that should excite most 007 enthusiasts such as Bond sporting his Goldfinger white dinner jacket (complete with red flower accoutrement), some very similar musical moments from John Barry’s score to On Her Majesty’s Secret Service and of course the very presence of Spectre itself.  I’m sure there are others but I am too degenerate to notice.  As for the movie itself, I am excited but skeptical.  I may be in the minority by Skyfall stripped a lot of the joy out of the series for me and portrayed a grayer, more placid Bond with whom I couldn’t quite connect.  But it likes there will be a lot of gee whiz slammin’ spy bangin’ action so I’m there!  Also, I am still madly in love with Monica Bellucci and have been since the cursed day of my birth.  How I wish I could come to her rescue in some Bond like fashion though any such attempt on my part would almost certainly result in our brutal and untimely deaths.  And truth be told, what I truly wish is that she would come to my rescue in a Lady Bond like fashion. 

My desires are immoral and rooted in a version of you which likely does not exist.  But you could know my mind.  Finally.  You could know it in a way no one else could and you would be able help me in a way no one else can.  To be held by your strong arms and to then feel your touch on my face.  And to know that your eyes desire my own gaze.  And for dinner afterward?  I know you would handle that as well.  Divinely. 

I’ve been neglecting you and I can no longer feel your embrace.  I imagine myself dying in the snow and I wonder if you would be there in the final moments.  It has been so long and when I close my eyes I can no longer see your face.  I do not know how your voice would sound.  I beg you not to go away. 

A woman against a red backdrop holding a baby in her arms.  The sweetest sounds I’ve ever heard.  No more technology.  Nothing more beside this living rain.  Something in you.  I see her in the park and life passes from one to another.  After you there is only this wall of stone.  We are covered in black oil.  Their initials are in the sand and soon the tide will carry them out to sea.  And at some point after that they will never speak to each other again. 

Such unparalleled desire for scissors.  How does she seem?  So friendly, so kind and caring.  And yet capable of such wonderfully cruel and evil acts. 

I recently purchased Luc Besson’s 2014 flick Lucy on blu ray and I’ve watched it 2 nights in a row.  It is a stupid but fantastic film.  It is honestly difficult to put into words how much I love this movie.  I don’t know if I will ever re-analyze my favorite movies of 2014 list but this and Nightcrawler should have been on there some-fucking-where.  That was my mistake; mine alone and I will have to live with that for the rest of my life. 

My love for Spanish actress Aitana Sanchez-Gijon cannot be overestimated.

I grew up at the very tail end of the cold war and recall with numbing clarity living under the threat of nuclear devastation.  To this day I still practice curling up under a table with my hands on top of my head. 

You love communism?  I was drinking from a glacier today.  “Meanwhile, back at the wrench”.  He was about to bash me over the head with a crowbar.  Rubber duckie.  We’re all just piecing ourselves together. 

Into the late hours of the night will I be reading Operation: Paperclip?  I think that is possible.

I first heard the terror as a child when it spoke to me through my little blue cassette tape player.  Instead of offering comfort my parents opted to mock me and make matters worse.  It was impossible to confide in them and in many ways they were equally nightmarish as the thing itself.  Memories can be awful, disgusting things.

I recently went to the multiplex and watched Terminator Genisys.  This reminded me that I still need to purchase The Definitive Edition 1984 remaster of Brad Fiedel’s soundtrack to the original Terminator.  Maybe one day I’ll have the intestinal fortitude to finally do what needs to be done.  But I doubt it. 

Why bother questioning why certain things are allowed?  We would not have it any other way. 

I understand, truly.  On my knees in the snow with my hands in the air, I understood.  It is preferable not to run anymore if I know you will no longer be chasing me.  Maybe my actions are petty and I am a child.  I just wanted you to know, for always.   

My only solace these days comes in the form of an affectionate prostitute.  Perhaps one day she’ll go too and far and I’ll “accidentally” forget to say the safe word (or be unable due to the massive amounts of pressure being applied to my neck) and the police will subsequently find my lifeless body, my manhood poking out of my rent trousers in a death erection. 

My favorite color is clear. 

I need a raised couch, things like this.  Is there a donation place around?  Was I bit unfair to Joseph?  It’s very possible.  At the very least I have never given Shane his proper due.  I watched it again recently and the angry man was right: it does indeed look fantastic. 

I started this miserable day off by listening to David Bowie’s 2013 disc The Next Day.  I remember the release date well as I took time off work to hitchhike down to ye ol’ conglomerate that I might purchase a copy with a few federal reserve notes which were nestled tightly in my lovely faux kangaroo leather wallet.  In a bizarre twist of fate I also purchased the then most recent Tomb Raider video game for the Playstation Part 3.  It’s been years since I’ve played that game (though it is quite good) but The Next Day has become a regular fixture of my worthless life and likely one of the main reasons I haven’t yet succumbed to the ever tempting and mathematically accurate equation of 1 bottle of wine + 1 bottle of sleeping pills = 1 sweet release.  The moment I knew I knew I knew. 

“Not yet.  But they will be when they find out who I am,” was my answer to her question.