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Crumbling in desires and other pieces of theories and mindless scopes. Every idea I had, prepared, polished, structured in master- and fallback-options, turns out is a brick without basement. Maybe the basement was mashed since this no´n´sense world opened its forgotten gates. Notice, NOTICE, dumbass! Why planing if the heat will set it up to a rising blinded-by-its-flaming-wings phoenix anyway. Bestowing me nights of insomnia. I was never a good sleeper and I can handle day-dreaming, but this is sandman on diarrhoea. Maybe he infected me, stupid old man with his beard. So how you wanna build home without basement, if you won´t paint castles in the air sky-blue. Vanishing dreams. Dreams without a pimp, lingering like a whore in front of a fake-me, sober and life-affirming on top. How long will it take to rain inwards and bowel. Hope my heart will be around. Gulp.
Get on, stop moaning around, stop turn around yourself, you will stumble anyway. Keep moving. Move move move! So family is no more, commitment mutated to frustration, hope in sight, but still not more than a fart of a glowfly. People, whom I trusted before seemed to be not in line anymore. Maybe it´s the come-and-leave of tourists, expads or just friends, casualness of business abroad, off the road. Maybe this is a different perspective in general. In line, on the road, doing, creating something, which belongs to this place, this world. Instead, dropouts, plankets overhead, playing an enlightened ghost, a spiritual interpretation of lostness, fearing the eternal torture of loneliness. Not that I am not scared of sitting on a bench someday and starring in a whatever Yoga-position in the deep of my eco-healthy-spacy-yeah-I-feel-so-part-of-everything-food-treated-asshole and asking why I can not see in the dark, smell the kiss of dust or taste the bitter sweet of love.

This is surrender and I don´t surrender. – Ah, you still and again such a drama queen.

Why I am not writing about the lovely Khmer New Year celebration in Siem Reap, about the massive mass of local smiles pushing through.
Or my brothers, rocking in love, so cute to watch them behaving like a kid, receiving a present, which they unwrapp again and again, curious about what will happen next, how the future will bless their lust, the sexual dependance. Repeating what she said, did, how she is and how much they love her. So precious!
I should start to practice hand-poking soon to give my lust a feeling, my pain a distraction, my kid a tool to play.