Random rumblings on a red sofa

It would be rather cool if every day something spectacular would happen, but most of the time your better of finding the small pieces of entertainment burried in everyday life. A man at Los Angeles' Union Station who's picking up leaves and putting them to a bin (everything has to be perfect), or watching a nordic walking group from an apartment's balcony in Davis, doing their morning walkout (everything has to be timed), which reminded me of the many walking groups I used to see back then in Germany when I was driving to my distant workingplace in the mornings.

Okay. What the fuck? This is all your coming up with when you're, bored as hell, sitting on a table draped with pictures of red flowers, green birds and yellow butterflies, while a sweet scent of spicey tacos creeps out of the busy kitchen into the attached rooms, creating a smokey layer of hunger irritating gas. Yummy. Looking up to the left there's a green sign declaring: Las Vegas 25mi. And looking up to the wall in front I only see two empty chairs and above them a orangish sign warning “Bump”.

[background soundtrack playing, which you'll find at the end of the post]

A bump? Oh Jesus in heaven, why are things getting complicated as soon as you put thoughts in them. A single “bump” suddenly becomes the small center of an entire shity universe pregnant with thousands of mean meanings.

[Insert philosophical talk about “bump(s)”]

I guess all these bumps are just essential to everything in our hypergiganticmegaheavyandgodblessedmotherfucking Universe. They fuse and they detach every single element in life since billions of years. (Although David Guterson in “Snow falling on cedars” still believed “that accident rule(s) every corner of the universe except the chambers of the human heart”.

[end of background soundtrack, which you'll find at the end of the post]

And then again, getting fucked by some shitstorm changes as much as a shitload of concerns.

A couple of hours, liters and hits later I see myself next to a red sofa featuring a “Las Vegas 10mi” sign next to it, which you can't miss when you try to lie down on your back. The sign seems to be the same as the other – despite the distance not much has changed. My still conscious mind tries to reflect on what it experienced today tonight: A couple of notable faces which will fade away fast, a nice guy on crouches, a pink flamingo, a red shoppingcart, a less furious onehit fight, sweet compliments, lost games, forgotten names, ignorant thefts, a cheeseburger and a leak next to a public parking sign. Then again lying down on the red sofa and hoping not to fall over, I ask myself when a new part of “The Hangover” will arrive and if it's worth watching it. For tonight I'm done for. Wraping myself in a dark blueish Batman planket I see no point why we should change roles. For now.

 

 

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