homemade paranoia
The triangles mean warning. I smoke leaned on the window sill. And as I look on the wall I see the yellow triangle and remember the traffic signs. I study now for driving school. The book sais triangles are warnings. Water drips from the tab. Dusk is coming and the house is empty. Has been empty for two days now - for two days I have spoken a word, dint hear my voice except inside my mind, didn’t make or receive a phone call, didn’t sing along my favorite tunes. I have just been listening to rain and branches falling down from trees. There was storm, last night. Today all quiet, still. Drip. Drop. Stop. Setting is perfect. Green-gray shadows. Uniform. One can look into details. Enhancing them, bringing them to life. o,444 kg netto, 22,2 sk. Dirty fingerprint as I stuck that label on the light switch. Thermometer old and dirty too, lines blurred. I put off the cigarette. Close window. The lines meet, the corners are dulled by dust and shadows and decay. The wall texture is dull too, lusterless, my fingers numb, cant rub. The wall socket stares at me, 3rd eye on its forehead. On the right side, squeezed between fridge and wall, grins a brush, teeth full of scum. Behind I can hear the snaky leaves of a plant crawling over its pot. Jars huddle together, large buttocks. Light grew dimmer. I flash around with my camera and spy on display. Through my second pair of digital eyes, new things emerge. I can see the layers of the tissue splitting easily and drifting apart, tearing with them molded patterns of flowers. Oranges cluster on in the most distant and dark corner of table. Knives cut in the wood simply by their pushing weight. The kitchen door is missing and first time I wonder where it might be. I study the trails of old paint that reveal on its frame. The other flower is dead, we forgot to water it,all left are the little gray hairs. White paint drips from the electric counter in hallway, like milk from the muzzle of a baby-beast. And the screws seem too tight, crucifying it to the wall. Tiny white plastic skeleton, worn out by touches while on the key chain - just claws at the end of the legs. Under it thrown a gray bag. In the box next to it, posters rolled, edges sharps, colors whirling inside. Corner of a black bar alone against ceiling. Flash, shooting thing on top of a closet. From the display stares at me lifeless cat of artificial fur, coiled around its eyes made of electric capacitators. Black signs hovering above her, behind a fragile fence of dried up leaves. Kitsch clock, both Jesus arms and the clock hands stuck. I turn and move to my room. Stumble on my former-white sports shoes, pancaked under the bicycle wheel. “Kein zutritt”. I easily push door open and I hastily flash again with my camera in the corner behind it. Small army of yogi bears welcoming me from a plastic bag. Sad blue ant glued on a postcard. Speakers on my table say “trust”. I quietly close the door to my room and I’m safe. I fumble my way to the window through package paper littering the floor. I must pull the curtains open.
