Been a while since my last update. The relative dullness of the last week has been leavened only by the discovery that I passed all my units. I had thought I would feel hollow regardless of whether I passed or failed, but this turned out to be a brilliant piece of self-trickery on my part, a protective mechanism firing to ensure that should I fail, I wouldn't think I was missing much.
Don't put your faith in time, it heals but doesn't change,
And only a fool would take the chance to stay the same.
The Bluetones, 'Bluetonic'
Hmm. Bored. Hence, random rubbish:
He crushes the gold-embossed envelope in one fist, gazing into the dressing table mirror, the other hand running fingers delicately through a short shock of red hair. Its strands are lengthening after a brief period of military precision. The room is tastefully decorated, if a little cluttered. A punching bag hangs, incongruously, from a light fitting.
'Kazama! The moment of truth is coming!'
The reflection he sees obsesses him with its small imperfections. One ear positioned slightly higher than the other. Asymmetries in muscle formation here and there. Hands malformed from one too many sudden impacts. Otherwise intelligent facial expression ruined by Pavlovian pout reflex. He stands and surveys his financial empire - his pathetic zaibatsu.
On the other side of the open plan area two black leather two-seaters face off across a low-slung coffee table upon which are neatly stacked banknotes and coins of varying denominations and origins, next to an ashtray and a powdery credit card. Against the wall the glassy doors of a hi-fi unit reflect the neon street lights outside, projecting inverted, distorted strip club slogans against the white walls. Stacked on the stereo whilly-nilly are Village People and Elvis CDs, the Saturday Night Fever soundtrack, interspersed with an unending array of crappy romantic pop. A signed and framed photo of James Dean hangs in pride of place by the entrance.
The old man has taken too long. Two years, two empty years savouring the bitter taste of inadequacy - the taste of the class struggle, the taste of national rivalry, the taste of dented pride. And now, maybe, a chance for these wrongs to be redressed. A chance to ram a fistful of pointy hair down the throat of that pristine little boy scout with his super-duper devil-karate lightning-encrusted powers. This time the foot will be in the other mouth.
He turns and drives his fist into the punching bag, sending it swinging crazily. Then stalks to the wardrobe, pulls on spurred boots, chaps and goggles - it's time to ride.
Don't put your faith in time, it heals but doesn't change,
And only a fool would take the chance to stay the same.
The Bluetones, 'Bluetonic'
Hmm. Bored. Hence, random rubbish:
He crushes the gold-embossed envelope in one fist, gazing into the dressing table mirror, the other hand running fingers delicately through a short shock of red hair. Its strands are lengthening after a brief period of military precision. The room is tastefully decorated, if a little cluttered. A punching bag hangs, incongruously, from a light fitting.
'Kazama! The moment of truth is coming!'
The reflection he sees obsesses him with its small imperfections. One ear positioned slightly higher than the other. Asymmetries in muscle formation here and there. Hands malformed from one too many sudden impacts. Otherwise intelligent facial expression ruined by Pavlovian pout reflex. He stands and surveys his financial empire - his pathetic zaibatsu.
On the other side of the open plan area two black leather two-seaters face off across a low-slung coffee table upon which are neatly stacked banknotes and coins of varying denominations and origins, next to an ashtray and a powdery credit card. Against the wall the glassy doors of a hi-fi unit reflect the neon street lights outside, projecting inverted, distorted strip club slogans against the white walls. Stacked on the stereo whilly-nilly are Village People and Elvis CDs, the Saturday Night Fever soundtrack, interspersed with an unending array of crappy romantic pop. A signed and framed photo of James Dean hangs in pride of place by the entrance.
The old man has taken too long. Two years, two empty years savouring the bitter taste of inadequacy - the taste of the class struggle, the taste of national rivalry, the taste of dented pride. And now, maybe, a chance for these wrongs to be redressed. A chance to ram a fistful of pointy hair down the throat of that pristine little boy scout with his super-duper devil-karate lightning-encrusted powers. This time the foot will be in the other mouth.
He turns and drives his fist into the punching bag, sending it swinging crazily. Then stalks to the wardrobe, pulls on spurred boots, chaps and goggles - it's time to ride.
