This is a drowsy afternoon in northern Germany, maybe a tinge irregular because the sun is shining. Through the clouds of an indefinite height, it pours down to the earth like it has ever done before I even came here. If I watch closer, the tips of those barren but sprouting trees are wavering - some from the perching birds, other caressed by the gentle wind. Although I cannot feel. To save energy during the winter, the closure of my thick glass windows is air-tight. In door, there's only sound of my girlfriend playing Chinese entertainment shows on her laptop, and vaguely the sound of Chopin's complete Nocturne from my headphones, which I enjoy but barely notice - unless or until the pianist went frenetic with a few notes especially striking. And I cannot hear the sound from outside. Though in a moist corner of my muscular corpse there's still desire to check it out, to open the window, the slumber of having to move my ass deters any effort. Outside are regular diaries. On the lanes where neither Axe nor Sniper dwell, sporty German people, often dull, middle aged man, and occasionally young girls in their super-short panties, walked their dogs. And farther out, slicing the planet at an angle approximating thirty degrees, same people are depilating dogs of the same breed with boiling water - pulling out typical hindrances of guts, blood, teeth and bowel with their oily, but conceited hands of having to make a living. And to the south, people are looking for pieces of bread I just threw out this afternoon. For to me, when the beef slices have been consumed, the point of finishing the bread is a debatable one.
My crossed legs are in desperate need of exfoliation. I love the exactness of the word exfoliation as opposed to foot-scrubbing, which I performed quite substantially, with a scissor whose handles are covered in pink, likely polystyrene plastic, and often of no avail. Exfoliation, like ablation, insinuates a surgical biochemistry of an unyielding radicalism to the ailed body. The effectiveness of such a treatment is unknown to me, and any time soon I don't see myself actually going to a foot spa. However, the notion of remedying a supposedly irreversibly dead beautiful foot intrigues me. Yet for now I'm leaving it alone. For in the chant of despair, with my hands joined and voice soothed, I teach myself how much the lust of the attaining falls short of the attained.
Her laptop, moments ago still blasting out voices of Cantonese/Mandarin/English speaking gaming show participants, now is dormant, with its Apple logo bizarrely facing me instead of facing her. In fear of waking her up, I gently took of my headphones and placed them by her laptop. The world of Chopin all of sudden loses its appeal simply because it is un-silent. On the background I can hear the noise coming out of the heater - all other heaters in this residential college do not make such a noise, but I take it for granted for the calming white noise. In the first day I set my feet in this room, I placed all my belonging in a grid, with the power cord going through the hole at the upper-left corner of the desk. Now my laptop is on the bedside cabinet, with the cord coming from the Chinese-made Bull power adapter, traversing the part of floor strewn with dirt, hair and several drops of chocolate stuffing from yesterday after the German class, and ascending along the cliff to another hole of my computer - it gives my computer power upon which it relies to give me the pleasure of having Battlefield game to play and a keyboard to type on. I was supposed to bring my laptop to the Stats class. It is the only class for me on Thursdays. I didn't go there because my distaste of having to go to a tedious Stats class outweighs even my utilitarian concern of maintaining a decent grade point average. Most of the people in that class share my opinion, except a few, imaginably, African and German students that like to excel themselves regardless of how trivial the opportunity is. And so I can sit here having nothing to do. I have even devised a noun for my current philosophy of life, Alinism. Alinist approach to life, surely, is how my Romanian friend Alin lives a life, which, according to Husain, is eating everything, regretting nothing, and being serious only once, or maximally, twice in a month - sehr perfekt encapsulation of my current state of mind.
I sent an email to my mom days ago asking her for 2800 RMB which I had used to buy Apple iTunes Gift Cards from Taobao. She hasn't replied yet. And now I'm concerned because I used a credit card for those purchases and I don't want that affair to affect my credit report - though I'm yet to be in a litigation against PayPal regarding that 500 euro. I fancied she might have gone out because there happens to be another incident of my grandmother, or simply the internet at home had broken down again for no reason.
