prelude to the inexhaustible city part 2

Finally he ended up in a room with darkened windows, windows blackened-out or smeared in soot as if to conceal shameful crimes. The floorboards were chipped-bare, and creaked echoingly as he trod over them. He was by now in such a disoriented state that he couldn't tell whether he was in a basement or in a penthouse flat, nor did he care.
It seemed like an artist's studio, out-of-the-way, bare, with slim iron pillars that held up the plaster roof. The woman leading him in led him to a corner where there were the rudiments of a home, a red-shaded standard lamp that she clicked on and which emitted a dim yellow light, and a plump satin couch that she pushed him back on, and among whose cushions he reeled and sank. Half-comatose there, unshaven and ruffle-haired, M. saw her step forward into the lamp-light from the dust and darkness of the room.
Her curled hair was very honey-yellow blonde, and in it could be seen depths and tints of richer orange-yellow colour that shone and sprinkled in the light. Her mouth was open in a wide grin, and he saw the light blaze on her white teeth and red lips. She advanced as if to devour him, to mock or reprimand him. The thing that shocked M though were her eyes, that were madly blue, of a lifeless blue which seemed yet to have an infinite depth, which seemed to recede into her eye. Her naked limbs that thrust forward as she bent over his still form, and her breasts bulged sadly from her tight red dress so that the line of her cleavage was highlighted in shadow. She seemed vital, alive, blood pulsing through her veins, life-force so strong in her that it was frightening....

One

In deserted rooms in the inexhaustible city, passing from night to day, through half-ruined streets in yellow afternoons, basements with red-patterned wallpaper, large window frames, tinted glass and in the background industrial noise.
Or in deeper and more secret places like the places you can go to in movie theatres.
Monuments, fountains, vast unattainable cities of night.
Through these M. wandered, finding himself present in bookshops, arcades, over-horizon scenarios, markets and courtyards filled with afternoon light and red-blazing windows, filled with figures that now and then gesticulated to him, mouthing lines.
Drunken or sad he went with ladies into darkened living-rooms; there when quiet lamps were switched on he watched disinterestedly their glittering lips, the movement of their flesh, the fall of their hair. He saw the swell of breasts beneath fabric, he saw the flesh of knees and thighs. He saw all the phantom girls come alive and parade in front of him, mocking his excitement, and, falling in and out of shadow, bending and twisting and smiling, groping towards the final release, the final apex of desire, so urgent in its ferocity and yet so meaningless in its aftermath. Blonde women with well-fed faces warmed with blusher, smiling at his inexperience in the corners of garrets, dusky girls with pouting lipstick smiles that looked like grief, reclining in tight dresses. Flesh against flesh, touch against touch, daylight never intruding.

beginning

Through the endless boulevards of the inexhaustible city, where overhanging buildings shadow the sidewalks.
Driving through streets wet with afternoon rain, where little pigeons swoop and miss refuse...
Lumbering in the sight-seeing bus, past the museum and the bright flag and the endless Georgian terrace, or on the bottom streets past gardens, hedges, inconspicous Victorian weeds...
The bus was bedecked and painted with gaudy advertisements and messages, advertising in broad brown-red letters the sight-seeing tour. The top-deck of the bus where M. sat, dreaming lazily, was open to the sky so that mid afternoon breezes swept in as the stodgy bus meandered along, rifling his hair, scattering dropped sweetie wrappers up the aisle.

a wide range

a wide range near the cracked sunken graveyard where the homeless sleep under the tombs at night and the traffic swishes by men in proud flannel business suit and with fat jowl are going home in the luxury leatherette smell of their sepulchral volvo to pressure cooker suburbs or fatigue and rugged crowsfeet rubbings and heart attacks at midnight in the middle of the afternoon underneath the flags of all nations and near huge regency department stores faded to rainwash grey just like the big acidic crumbling blackened spaceneedle monument all over in backstreet and college digs geeks are grinning and handsome boys combing back hair like skydivers and skaters and punkers and motorbike boys and pale fat goth girls all surrendered near a flaky pane and a tiled roof wet with pissy rain or bespectacled n smooth haired prowling and yelling with their confréres in a wild college or clapping bigbosomed and eager in a basement dark deacon brodie venue for the international art fools spangling on a stage or gritting their mohican teeths over guitars in leather or rancid jean diving into oblivion thrusting arms of sweat and little alcohol rotten gangs shavenheaded in estates knifing prowled serial killers clenching fists with plots of shallow hole not forgetting the changeling ghosts of a thousand centuries who were drowned here or were strangled with their own rabbie burns cravats in a spectral candlelit drawingroom on a shiny cluedo table and came back in empty afterdinner mirrors at 8 o clock while dickens freaked and hid under the table with pearly moustache and tophat meanwhile big bostonian automobiles rumble past in the street and on hot days festival fools celebrate heroin in a gutter and common lothian disgrace underneath the old burned troy jerusalem miles of paved disgruntled sulking reek respectable downtown in a greenbush on a picture postcard......

Roses & Cream (Dream)

I was in America. On a long road there was a traffic jam. From one of the vehicles behind me came a song. It was an old-fashioned love song.
Songs were issuing from the door of an old-fashioned carriage behind me. I was connected to these songs.
A romantic song came forth, entitled "Roses & Cream".
I was accused of writing the song. I went back to the carriage and found out the name of the author. The author of the song was "Ghandi".
I admitted to authorship of the song. I approached a car and told the girls inside, "Apparently, i'm Ghandi". There was a girl there, smiling, in sunglasses. She responded and then drove off.

A girl came to ask me for my autograph. We were on a long street bordered by a low wall. The girl was blonde with big breasts behind a white garment. Her eyes were hidden behind sunglasses. Her face was vacant and equivocal.
I asked her what did she want my autograph for. She said, "You wrote that beautiful song". I hesitatingly wrote it on a small piece of card she was carrying.

On Insomnia

When i say, "i suffer from insomnia" to someone, they always look for reasons. In diet or in habits or in mood, in obvious places, in well-surveyed areas. I rarely meet someone who can grasp that there is no cause for night-time restlessness.

The restlessness inhabits and infects one, it propels one to lurch up from the mattress, to cast the clothes on the floor, to fight and wrestle with the pillow.

Is it depression? No, it is something deeper and more vast than anything implied by that word. That word implies a restful, dark hollow, a valley that one can slowly traverse, never raising one's eyes to the horizon. My experience is rather a dreadful, punishing activeness that grips the body and poisons the mind, so that thoughts are not thought and let go, but regarded and over-regarded, monitored and over-monitored, in duplicate and triplicate to an unbearable infinity of infinities, each thought interrupted by shoals of others, flitting like dull, lumpen fish in a filthy ocean enfused with the mud of over-familiarity.

Because the inside of my brain is sickeningly over-familiar, because that interiority and that subjective pause, represented by the pre-sleep stage, are somehow appaling and overwhelming, because my limbs apparently still want to wrestle, my legs still want to twitch ceaselessly like those of a man shot in the belly...

Because of all this i cannot sleep.

Fragments:
The chick who went on a killing spree. By some pallisade or sidestreet, beneath a terrace.
As always happens on these occasions it seemed unreal. The goths were still joking, for a full minute after the shooting had already begun, not noting the import of it.
Sylvia the goth girl was halfway through a joke, and her cracked laugh bit down on it.
To realise as though half-seriously... the chick had already drawn a snubnose from a purse and began firing pointblank. Quick, like a scorpion sting. Manic, n we only came in here to shelter from the rain.
Car backfiring. Firework. Some prankster, bored, is letting off a firecracker.
Artschool. The chick who came into to look for folios along the shelves at the edges. Tall, brownhaired, somewhat geeky with protuberant front teeth, breasts stretching top.
Excitable. Can't move close to her.
Who was she?