Bloc

All those ramblers, my bag full of strawberries and mushrooms, I set out a bit numb in the middle of the crowd with one thing in my mind: give up. I thought of myself as a beautiful corpse. I made a shrine inside my red channel lipstick and put all my desires in there. Don't get me wrong (or do, whatever), this is all very positive.

I thought at first the hard bit would be ignoring the sea of beautiful men coming my way, but it wasn't. It was my own self-righteousness. Yes, he came in black, all nice and smiley but I went the other way. Then another, a blond god, oh my gosh. If I were to design a man he would look just like that. Lots of tasty angles and the music. No. I managed to hold the mushroom twist and keep on studying paradoxes. I won't let you, blond Greek god, sweep me off my feet. I've got more important things to do.

My mates, bless them, so nice and cheerful, made me feel a glimpse of belonging every now and then. Belonging to the human race, let me explain in time, cos the unseen, the grass, the frequencies of the music, oh yeah, they all blinked at me 24/7. Love, love, love.

But then Serotonin levels started to run low and they all blamed each other for their own faults. To watch it is quite funny, sometimes boring, but certainly lovely under Hemsby sun. Since I decided to fight my addiction to self-righteousness, I managed to keep my mouth shut, never mentioning projections or the "like treat like" theory. A festival is not exactly the right time to trace parallels between Jung and Homeopathy.

My mind wondered quite a few times back to that Alpha A Plus semi-god in black, and for really long 5 seconds I even projected a holography of him leaning on the pool table. What a fucking cliche! I thought of a funny part on The War of Emmanuel's Neither Parts: "He was taught how to make knives and arrowheads out of teeth, mussel shell and split bamboo, he played music in the huts on pan-pipes, bark trumpets, and the goo. No woman was never allowed to see the musicians play in case she should think it effeminate, and any woman who did see was obliged to allow the offended musician to prove his virility."

What a brilliant fashion. Hey DJ, I think you are fucking gay.