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I yearned for that brief, sharp feeling I get when I drink - a sad, burning feeling - and then, blissfully, no feelings at all.
When the silence and the aloneness press down on me, crushing me, carving through me like ice, I need to speak aloud sometimes, if only for proof of life.
I feel sorry for beautiful people. Beauty, from the moment you possess it, is already slipping away, ephemeral.
"Kan jeg spandere noe å drikke?" brølte mannen, for å overdøve neste sang. (--)
"Nei takk," sa jeg. "Jeg vil ikke ta i mot noen drink fra deg, for da blir jeg forpliktet til å kjøpe en til deg til gjengjeld, og jeg er redd jeg rett og slett ikke er interessert i å tilbringe tiden det tar å drikke to drinker i ditt selskap."
I stared at the floor. Did I ... did I look like the kind of person who ought to be avoided in a game of bus seat selection? I could only conclude, in the face of the evidence, that I did. But why?
There was no window, and a framed print on the wall (a vase of roses, made using a computer by someone who was dead inside) was more offensive to the eye than a bare wall.
Naturally, I had been about to pour it all over myself but, just in time, had read the warning printed on the paper cup, alerting me to the fact that hot liquids can cause injury. A lucky escape, Eleanor! I said to myself, laughing quietly.
Animals, birds and insects can provide such useful insights. If I'm ever unsure as to the correct course of action, I'll think, 'What would a ferret do?'or, 'How would a salamander respond to this situation?' Invariably, I find the right answer.