the manic street preacher

i am happy at the verges, i am happy at sharp edges, where the moment is silver bright and sharp, where the pin is bending the "dolgun" flesh of the finger tipp, bending up to a pierce. even the most ordinary moment is bright like a star, i shine, cutting life into exact pieces with my silver sword. i live the whole day like runing through a river jumping from rock to rock. living each moment, each existence of mine as sharp pin heads (where areas' limit goes to 0), existing in dots rather than as a line. merely existing, (un)existing as a ghost of a word, unseen shadow of a story. i like my manic streches that comes once in a while.

if i had to choose an object to be: make me a water bed with transparent nylon skin and with no edges or stiches.

once, back in childhood, i wanted to be like Alfred not like Batman, i had wanted to be Batman too but i was -in a way- serious about being Alfred not about being Batman. Batman as in Burton Batman watched at Rexx.

deneme - express: i mean a bullfight, life is.("here not the meaning of the words but the sound should give the meaning") and (ghost of) "life" is a mouthfulling word, very feminene and fecund like julie delpy imitating nna smone.