Ponderously I raise my right arm towards the light and sniffed at it - it's the smell of a roasted chicken that is raw inside but overcooked on the surface. The bumpiness of my percutaneous layer signifies a minor imperfection of the automation of metabolism. I saw, through a pair of myopically astigmatic eyes, cracks and scurfs, vitiligos and spots, and the relics of my densely printed palm, mostly ridges, and occasionally veins that lurk in the shadow of my gesture of holding a hand. The artificiality of light, profoundly uniform and mild, irradiates through the half-closed curtain, and kindles a yet small spider that dares to traverse the transversal surface plagued by what appears to be a morphological glitch in the antepenultimate deck. The roar of the heater, though almost inaudible to my wonted ears, still persists at the back end of my nerve - amongst the thermal slugs, countless spider webs ligate the openings, making the noise a tad wriggling instead of a tranquil flat. It sometimes would also function as my armrest. Whenever I'm tired of navigating the decimation in a game or simply prefer the mental break that is always enshrined by a delightful anguish of my rasterized elbow. Such an imprint is never too deep as I lack flesh of a considerable thickness - it would stop at the bone, compress the meat to the extent of a foil, yet not too leafing to cause a tangible hurt. And right upon it, the cord of my Beats by Dr. Dre headphone dangles, drooping onto the ground with its standardized 3.5-millimeter connector facing upward, peering at the ceiling with an exact perpendicularity - what it is seeing on the ceiling I cannot discern, the wall coating of the latest university apartment is untainted with the smog of bongs and the smoke of weed. The only discordancy, originally a colossal mosquito splattered onto the wall by my pitiless brandish, is mysteriously gone, leaving behind a dim gray dot on the wall that might or might not be its mutilation. The remains is probably still atop the floating bookcase, however my own sanitary standard is superficial enough to allow for a principle neglect. On the platform of my desk, a spray bottle in alignment with the black kettle has the nozzle pointing at the direction of the plastic ink lines that mark the water stages with an equipotent interval, with the exception of the max level, which terminates at "1.7L" instead of 2.0L (I had previously postulated that such a reduction prevents the galloping seethe - it turned out, the efficacy is merely nominal). And it unwittingly reminds me of a white supremacist commanding the gaily starkness of a black underling. The cream contained therein which Winnie used at the beginning of her college loses its white to the yellowishness from the photochemistry of the reading lamp - its color is even more despotically dark compared to the printing paper from the German course - which reads "Abend das Konzert Hören?" on the first line with the former half of the sentence veiled by a rambling pile of COMMERZBANK booklets and a stapled collection of case study from today's Academic and Professional Skills class. The doodles on the paper are either blue or black in color, short of youthful panache yet rife with a professional indifference from having already bullshitted a lot. On the northwest of where I am sitting, is a last-year-model iPad with a cardboard roll, bereft of tissue, on its screen. The roll used to be circular but was somehow battered into an ellipse, leisurely seated while girdled by the line of my Microsoft office mouse that I use for gaming. Ritually and aslant, the cardboard roll is the veteran to be vetted for its own gloriousness. And just when all of my attention is diverted externally, my stomach sounds, with a particular type of drippiness to indicate that I am, indeed a gobbet of organics instead of a heap of mineral. Yet the vitality of it, all the writhing and twitching, bizarrely, would condescend me into the spiral of a fluorescent panic attack, indistinct, residual, but flocked.
The vesperality of night, enchanting and spacious, brews outside of the window of my immobile carriage. And the halos of lights are fainter than last time I have depicted of them. The pedestrians stroll beneath its pliant head, swift and unheeding, towards the home of their familiarity. Varied sprouted trees, the once carking, now dormant swarm, and the wooden German lodges with their respective bathrooms and a tonsured, shaven lawn, compose the concert of an impeccable stillness - by day they are vivid, by night they are equally vivid but contracted. The College Nordmetall building appears the pillar of my pursuing soul that is full of witty remarks and kittle satires and which capitulates whenever its housing demands to pee or poo - such as that, like what has happened the umpteenth of times, I would grab several pieces of toilet paper and march towards the restroom, where my arse festively emits, and where the pond festively splashes. Sitting to the front and sitting to the behind are both fruitlessly unavailing, as if the water, when I am not snooping, would move in accordance to my arse.
Girgle, girgle, the water inside the kettle is drunk. And abruptly I feel thirst. And my literariness concedes as I storm to pour myself two glasses of tap water. While drinking, I saw a dead insect climbing the wall, wielding the slender tentacles and dowsing for its desirous flee. Tugging my pants, I survey myself in the mirror, a basebred turd with no blood but ouns, no suffering but scars, and utterly exanimate - I slept for four hours the preceding night and had a class of nine hours. Fuck! Cunt! Shithead! "Sun" of a bitch! It just shouldn't be; and it just shouldn't be, thou dainty fambler!
A sordid shriek, hoarse and whisht, valorous and timid, screeches, clangs, and bawls from afar, and it blisters, blisters, and blisters while being perfectly noiseless, sober, and benign. I'm throbbed, capped out, and pushed away from a dump of anonymous, smoldering wreck which I cordially disliked yet nonetheless fervently revered. It's all ostensible and futile and ungainly and stochastic, as I sit, dumbfounded and weary, and undress to be fallaciously dethroned - for now the arrearage is amounted, and the deal has been summed. Good day!
