Today, I'm actually feeling a lot better. The cold is evaporating now even though I am still really weak. In fact I'm sure Ian Hislop could swing a haymaker at me now and I'll crumble on the floor screaming for no more pain. After work I went into town and bought Kanye West's first album as I stumbled across Late Registration the other month and surprisingly thought it was excellent. He's definitely a lyricist who considers his words carefully and someone that has an ego but is fortunate and able enough to have talent to back up his bravura. College Dropout seems to be just as good even though I haven't heard it in it's entirety, it's actually playing as I'm scribbling this gibberish down. Any how, "We don't care" definitely stands out with its comedic theme and serious lyrics… Shit, I'm starting to sound like a critic so I'll stop.
Anyhow, I need to go get me some sleep as I've got to, like many tomorrow, hurdle the last day of the working week before I can rest up for two days at the finishing line. Here's a bit more progressive prose, although this contribution is a bit shorter because I'm knackered and towards the end what I was writing wasn't even legible.
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It’s the guilt that would gnaw away at his mind. Eating slowly at his thoughts, bit by bit seeping the remembrance of murder more and more into what he’s thinking and eventually taking over his head. He can’t comprehend killing someone, not like this, only if it was fully justified and Yannish couldn’t justify it to himself what he was considering doing. But he needs the pistol. It’s so powerful, visually, obviously for its ability to maim or end life but perhaps more because of its connotations. People who would see it cowl in terror knowing that a gun could mean death unless utter compliance was given. He wouldn’t have choose words to convey that he was serious, the gun would do it for him, no one was going to mess with him while he held it in his hands or at least showed it to people. He could really only choose this weapon because of the power, a baseball bat, although dangerous can still be over powered by more than one person. The thought of carrying a knife and stabbing someone made him queasy as he imaged the squelching sound as he pierced through skin. No, a pistol, was the best choice, he could show everyone what he’s carrying, wave it above his head or hold it out straight and his intentions will be obeyed. No one would dare try and stop him. No one. Or would they? It would be someone filled with the virtues of integrity and pride that might tackle him. They would see this man waving a gun in the air harshly as if it controlled him, not the other way round. He would gage the possibilities of any sign of weakness and measure them up with the risk of his own safety. And being someone so virtuous they would rather risk their own life to try and save someone else’s than stay still and watch someone get shot. Yannish didn’t want to kill anyone, let alone the person he imagined with integrity and pride, they would be the last type of person he would want to shoot. He didn’t want to murder someone he wanted to be himself. Killing someone who Yannish wanted to be, and briefly was in his early pre-pubescent years, would be like shooting the shadow he was chasing. How could he be possibly be a virtuous person after he’s just committed murder, a pointless murder and not some serial killer or rapist, no, someone who had enough guts to tackle the psychotic fool waving a gun over his head shouting at anyone within eye sight.
Yannish backs away from the door and scrunches his eyes. “I can’t kill. It’s too much.” The pistol slides along the floor as he tosses it away like an empty cigarette packet. In fact a fag was the exact thing he lusted for now, to help calm those twitching nerves from snapping but all he has is his thoughts to help or torment him. He kneels down and starts to think of what could happen. “No shots need to be fired, I can just stick it in peoples faces, get what I want and get out. No shots, nothing.” Thinks Yannish as he looks at the floor following the trail of where the gun slid. “Ok, ok, if someone does try it I’ll just shoot it in the air or above their heads.” But as soon as he thinks that, he considers the alternatives that could happen. He could miss and end up shooting someone in the head or the heart. “Fuck” whispers Yannish. He knows the risks and if it came down to it he’d consider killing himself if he was boxed into a choice of ending another’s life. He gets up and walks over and picks up then gun. He wipes the floor dust from his jacket and places the side of his head to the door, pushes the handle down and pushes the door forward very slowly so that if it began to creak he could immediately begin to retract it before anyone knew what was going on. He briefly feels like a boy creeping down the stairs at Christmas eve, opening the lounge door ever so slowly until a gap large enough appears to spy through. A small gap opens up now and Yannish brings his eyes towards it and looks through.
Anyhow, I need to go get me some sleep as I've got to, like many tomorrow, hurdle the last day of the working week before I can rest up for two days at the finishing line. Here's a bit more progressive prose, although this contribution is a bit shorter because I'm knackered and towards the end what I was writing wasn't even legible.
************************************************************
It’s the guilt that would gnaw away at his mind. Eating slowly at his thoughts, bit by bit seeping the remembrance of murder more and more into what he’s thinking and eventually taking over his head. He can’t comprehend killing someone, not like this, only if it was fully justified and Yannish couldn’t justify it to himself what he was considering doing. But he needs the pistol. It’s so powerful, visually, obviously for its ability to maim or end life but perhaps more because of its connotations. People who would see it cowl in terror knowing that a gun could mean death unless utter compliance was given. He wouldn’t have choose words to convey that he was serious, the gun would do it for him, no one was going to mess with him while he held it in his hands or at least showed it to people. He could really only choose this weapon because of the power, a baseball bat, although dangerous can still be over powered by more than one person. The thought of carrying a knife and stabbing someone made him queasy as he imaged the squelching sound as he pierced through skin. No, a pistol, was the best choice, he could show everyone what he’s carrying, wave it above his head or hold it out straight and his intentions will be obeyed. No one would dare try and stop him. No one. Or would they? It would be someone filled with the virtues of integrity and pride that might tackle him. They would see this man waving a gun in the air harshly as if it controlled him, not the other way round. He would gage the possibilities of any sign of weakness and measure them up with the risk of his own safety. And being someone so virtuous they would rather risk their own life to try and save someone else’s than stay still and watch someone get shot. Yannish didn’t want to kill anyone, let alone the person he imagined with integrity and pride, they would be the last type of person he would want to shoot. He didn’t want to murder someone he wanted to be himself. Killing someone who Yannish wanted to be, and briefly was in his early pre-pubescent years, would be like shooting the shadow he was chasing. How could he be possibly be a virtuous person after he’s just committed murder, a pointless murder and not some serial killer or rapist, no, someone who had enough guts to tackle the psychotic fool waving a gun over his head shouting at anyone within eye sight.
Yannish backs away from the door and scrunches his eyes. “I can’t kill. It’s too much.” The pistol slides along the floor as he tosses it away like an empty cigarette packet. In fact a fag was the exact thing he lusted for now, to help calm those twitching nerves from snapping but all he has is his thoughts to help or torment him. He kneels down and starts to think of what could happen. “No shots need to be fired, I can just stick it in peoples faces, get what I want and get out. No shots, nothing.” Thinks Yannish as he looks at the floor following the trail of where the gun slid. “Ok, ok, if someone does try it I’ll just shoot it in the air or above their heads.” But as soon as he thinks that, he considers the alternatives that could happen. He could miss and end up shooting someone in the head or the heart. “Fuck” whispers Yannish. He knows the risks and if it came down to it he’d consider killing himself if he was boxed into a choice of ending another’s life. He gets up and walks over and picks up then gun. He wipes the floor dust from his jacket and places the side of his head to the door, pushes the handle down and pushes the door forward very slowly so that if it began to creak he could immediately begin to retract it before anyone knew what was going on. He briefly feels like a boy creeping down the stairs at Christmas eve, opening the lounge door ever so slowly until a gap large enough appears to spy through. A small gap opens up now and Yannish brings his eyes towards it and looks through.
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