In more of an effort to clear the clutter that is my room (and life), I thought I'd dictate a little something I wrote for university to you. It makes about as much sense as a veal chop becoming Olympic gold medallist. In other words, it could happen, but it's not likely.
Stalling slightly, Koushun Takami ponders what exactly it is he is to be writing about. He isn't too sure, yet all the same pen hits paper much as it would when writing up a new novel, only with less focus and more potential abiguiety.
He wonders where his inspiration lies, and why exactly it is that he can't dance for a lick of salt. He peers at the newly formed sentence... inspiration lies.
How true. Many times prior he had scrambled to put a great new idea out there, only to find himself immediately disinterested with it. The very notion of a good idea, false. And so, he returns to an ongoing period of deep thought, waiting for that one piece to fall into place.
Damn that last piece. Never where you want it to be. Despite the efforts of hundreds of other pieces, without the last one there's just a big empty space, and your Donald Duck puzzle ends up missing an eye.
One-eyed duck... I wonder if a pirate ever had a duck? What would he call it? Takami-san would be inclined to name it 'Alone', because it is no doubt a lonely life for a pirate duck.
He now stops on his tangent, and thoughts turn lightly toward more relevant things around him. He is a keen observer of his surroundings, yet all the same, he prefers to create his own. If he could, he would place a big grey concrete wall right in front of him. He isn't exactly sure why, but he figures it could come in handy.
Nobody ever questions math anymore. Why is every mathematical equation considered fact? Because one day some wiseass made it so? The people around me question this, particularly the aforementioned pirate duck. There's very little use for math in a pirate's life, particularly that of one who is also a water-borne fowl.
The crowd goes silent for a moment, anticipating the performer's next move. The performer hesitates. He is bemused because, as near as he could tell, they weren't there before. He was just sitting peacefully about his garden, sipping his tea, when BAM. Onto the stage he goes, mourning the loss of poor Yorick.
Who gives a shit about Yorick, anyway? The man's been dead for some time, and there's something unhygienic about fiddling about with his skull.
The pressure's on now. The audience wants action, dammit. The performer feels such incredible stress, he fears his face is about to split in two like a peanut. Come see the magnificent peanut man.
He considers breaking out in some freaky dance, but scraps that theory when he recalls that he dances like a zebra with haemorrhoids.
Upon closer inspection, the audience is filled with gorillas carrying heavy artillery. The performer considers warning the unassuming innocents, but can't muster out a voice for fear of having his head blown off by Donkey Kong.
The rabid gorillas are merciless. They discriminate not by ethnicity nor gender; their bullets know no identity. 12 students remaining.
Grabbing hold of the nearby scientist, the performer begins to panic. 'How will we stop the monkey madness?' he wails, to which the scientist laughs, a twinkle in his eye.
'The only way to stop the gorillas,' he replies, 'is with love.'
The performer eyes the scientist as if he was batshit crazy. In retrospect, he was batshit crazy.
Elsewhere, in the nearby watering hole, there's trouble a-brewin'.
...End note. Sorry you had to read that, kindelah.
