Cemetary Gates
12.01.2007
-2 °C
There is no me in you, there is no me inside, only I. Fevernights in norway, the jungle is out there somewhere behind the threes and I'm lost in office locations. No map, no easy survival. Wild beast in suits and their helpless prays by the waterhole. This is not Marrakech, this is not Izmir or the Sahara nights. It's ordernary life, and I'm granted housearrest by the system of modern survival. Hate it. All I wanna do is go to Rarotonga and die peacefully by a coconut falling from a palm.
I miss the desert, the road, the mountains and the ocean. My longing has such a degree that I would be happy if a gypsy told me that I would die a horrible death by cannibals in Papua New Guinea. At last that would mean that I would go there. Go away from the dull daily reservoir that they (read myself) keep me in. Time to hunt the buffalo, tatanka!
