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Thursday, 3 January 2013











... And I don't know what the shaman is trying to achieve... there isn't any light in this room; - it's black.. well not a real black, but you know pretty much black. And the shaman is making my heart go all crazy and I feel like I'm going to puke. Actually I'm pretty sure I'm going to puke ... The shaman is still dancing in this underground club and I can no longer feel the leather pushing up against my knees, I'm like... some place else? But my stomach hurts and my face feels feverish and the shaman won't stop fucking dancing. There is a smoke here that hangs on everything, pushing the dust of old customers up into the air as you slide down... In my case sliding down against the fucking booth against the back fucking wall as the Shaman spins so quick you can't decipher his shapes... I was wrong about the light actually, the light isn't black... Not black, it's an ink blue that seems to go fluorescent in the light when he comes too close shaking his breast tassels in a metaphor of nothing. It's that blue... You know. THAT BLUE. The blue of the portals to another reality. The blue that French guy is always talking about, not that guy, not the guy who wrote about portraits being portraits if he says so... No, not that french guy. The other one. The blue guy. I bet he was pretty fucking blue too, when he had a heart attack because he saw his face in a fucking moving picture. I'm feeling pretty much like him right now, the shaman doesn't give a shit though. He's still whirling round. How are the others watching him and not... going... like ... Out of their minds? If I stand up I'll lose the world and go crashing through the fucking ceiling to like... the neverending man. The light is void dark blue, or as our friends in France say, le vide bleu. And although I know there are other people in this joint: The amount of booths and chairs in this place tell me that. (The booths and chairs are dark red, or la vide rouge.) I can't see them. Perhaps it's just like I said, that smoke screen coming off the chairs every time you put even just the fucking tip of your finger on them. The end of a movie, the fucking skins of customers gone by... People have fun in this place man. Perhaps the human skin that has like evaporated... hides that shit man. Or maybe I'm the only one here this time. Anyway, look... I'm trying to tell you a story so can we like get to my main fucking point? The fucking shaman is dancing, I'm sweating, against a dark wall which is sweating with damp back at me and the light is la vide bleu, the chairs la vide rouge. And this fucking joker shaman guy is in the middle of the club shaking his blue breast tassels and screaming to the HIGH FUCKING HEAVENS all in my face. And that sends me right over the fucking edge. I don't do anything, but I like hit... the edge.. the closure, the fucking heel. The like ultimate annihilation detonation point extraordinaire. 

I lower my eyes to catch my breath. The Shaman is dancing, and dancing, and dancing. Grinding and grinding and grinding. Screaming and screaming and screaming. The dust of those who came before and no longer walk among us from the floor of this joint is being like distributed by the gnarled feet of the shaman - and I'm thinking how did this guy even end up in a place like this? The dust starts to travel up to meet my lowered eyes, like curling itself into my nostrils. I can feel it. It feels like the G-Y-M ... GYM all over again. Other peoples shit getting into all your shit. As you can imagine, this is enough to snap me back into the real world. And I raise my eye's to meet the shamans. 

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