He’s having such writer’s block. His words are like the city that never sleep, neither tagged from any tourism advertisement of third world country urban city, or taken from such classic romantic old movies about living love in another way or two.
His foolish mind full of cognitive junks, arranged in such mosaic ways, filling the emptiness of brain’s blocks inside his head. Keep questioning all the unnecessary doubts which always turnover his faith, he’s just sitting there at the corner of donut and coffee shop. A glass of icy decaf White Luwak’s, and a hot dish of Tiramisu Dough.
His chest crowded by this kind of feeling constructed by the puzzle of agony and heist, accumulatively filling his numbness of tenderness and attachments, left him rest non-peacefully narrowed down by the pillow and blankets of the sorrow couch. A blur television box waiting for blackout, until there’re no more channels left to be viewed but the preview ones. The unwashed dishes waiting to be reused anytime soon, either by new food he’s gonna cook by himself, or be bought from any food truck which passing by the blocks of his flat.
His body having this kind of itches, crabbed all over his skin, crawled like any other punk-rock alternative songs which has been sung by such group of electronic-musical players. Some part of it keep asking to be scratched all over again and again and again, until there’s only harsh red rash marked, like any allergic symptoms of psychosomatic diagnosis. Just like a busy city, lack of sanity by the low number of sanitary, the plugged drainage system chocked by the limp of uneaten leftovers junk. At a sudden all of the puzzle starting collapsing, leaving the unfulfilled block spaces which has been placed by mosaic before, just like a blueprint draft of such under developing urban.
And suddenly, at an abruptly glimpse, he’s realizing that there’s no reality without living it with all the feeling he has before, now, and after. Life is like a spread of architectural wide-sheet, only could be copied by such large machinery specially made for the industrialized artsy of constructing ideas. You could only have the carbon-copy of it, by made your own kind of machine, not for defensing from any war, but to create reproductively the map of anything you want, either it’s DNA or just another cognitive widespread of brainstormed ideas. The doubt is:
Will it be great, or just gonna be shutting down just like any other first world governments of authoritarian multi race country called united nations?
p.s: this prosaic writing inspired by the rest of the pictures which is linked from Jennifer Maravillas‘ project “Colorful Block-By-Block Map of Brooklyn Using Trash from the Borough” as written by Morgana Matus on inhabitat.com and as posted by Junckculture on junk-culture.com