Nå har jeg det bra
og takk skal du ha
jeg har det bedre enn de fleste her tilstede
jeg smiler hver dag
fordi jeg er glad
det er så fint å leve selv om stolbena er skjeve
jeg dekker på med lys og røde roser
og venter på at hun skal ringe på

Jeg sitter ne' på berget og ser utover havet
en solskinnsdag i ferien min
i sommer skal jeg surfe stå på vannski og bade
ja denne ferien tror jeg blir fin

Forbi meg suser Andersen i sin kabincruiser
med alle sine venner ombord
det kryr av jenter der i gjennomsiktige bluser
som Andersen ble kjent med i fjor

Jeg titter på jenter jeg har solbriller på
så ingen riktig ser hvor jeg ser
den peneste av jentene tar av seg sin BH
og snur seg i mot meg og sier

I think I might join the French Foreign Legion.

A rising beat, dopplering to and fro. A voice, distorted by modernity. Happy chords sneaking up on you from behind, trying wrestle you into the snow bank. A natural progression of music in reverse chronological order, vibrating as it usurps its predecessor.

A spinning wheel careens into you and me, driving us apart. Symbolic meanings in all that we see and interpret - this. The eager thrumming of a cymbal and the rising crescendo of orchestrated looping. A very long wait till tomorrow. And it comes, leaving the solitary survivor. A sonic bottleneck emerges and gives way to yet another era; the evolution of the tune. We are the selection. Are we God? Are we gods? I say yes, she said no.

I don't remember what she said. Opportunities missed, beats ignored, never to be recorded into my life for ever and ever, but others grasped by the zipper and tugged close. No regrets. There should never be. And there it goes again, a silent eruption, leaves its only trace in negatives. Sepia of now. Repeating itself, is that the genius so acclaimed? A simple repetition; the Romans invented cement and hamburgers.

A beat mistaken for polyphonic tones.

A free write gone awry, a hybrid, a Frankenstein of unknown dimensions which none do desire. But it is not true, it has been proved otherwise. Raise your hands to the sky and acclaim your own greatness, for that is what you should be worshipping. Worship the possibility, the ability of you. Of You. There is only you. We are all you. Confined not within you, or me, but in all that is. Everything, every sinuous strand of the æther that flows all around us, seen and unseen, we are the alleles, the genes, the genomes swimming in our genetic fishbowl, two lost souls grasping and groping. Hopelessly choking, but with good intentions. What is the intention of god? The god that we cannot see, because we cannot see our forehead, or our eyes. And what good would they be, if they were apparent to us? What purpose would they serve? The visible God does nothing but obstruct visions of reality. And so does ganja.

A different way is not a given as the best. Rarely is it the best. Sunni. Stick to your traditions. Stability will be death of me, you and Europe. My country, it will die, give way to the children with matches, set upon torching the world. Tackling me into the snow, and likewise my grip brings you with me. It's not always you, but it is. Perhaps, I don't know.

Genders are a funny thing, I cannot for the life figure out the meaning of them in our language, but it just seems to natural and lesbian lizards not so. A little window comes up, reminding me, without its intent being so, that it is time to end this solitary confinement in my mind.

Time to end this reverie and this epiphany, time to embrace the cold hands and fall away with you.

A rising crescendo is the ascent to the surface of the water. The end of a world, and the beginning of another. Mine.

marhaban.

I desperately need to write something. Anything at all, really. Otherwise I fear my already lackluster writing will detoriate beyond repair. Wouldn't take much, granted. It's slipping already, really. Or is that my creative side going out for coffee and donuts? I faintly recall my logical side going off in a rage about that, as there is usually garlic involved, though what connection this might have with coffee and donuts is beyond my comprehension and so forth. See? This post is a disgrace. I've never gone off on such a useless subject like that before. Really.

ilâ l-liqâ'.

You're chickening out! What a lousy--

Shut up, Marvin.

No, really, it's a load--

What did I just say?

Nothing! Like always!

Rubbish. I always have something to say.

No, you really don't!

Shut up.

The eternal question of the ages reverberates within my thinly-clad metallic skull, beating a quick march.

What are you going to write now, pretty boy?

If you look down throughout my post history you shall discover an incredible fact, peerless in its awesomeness. It is, as I mentioned briefly in the former sentence: grand.

Why does this fucker keep repeating himself?

The answer is-

Please tune in tomorrow for the continuation of this great, epic tale of (what was it again? Oh, right) love, betrayal and lust!

Wank.

Well, well. Here I am again, for what reason(s) I haven't the faintest, really. I'm just mucking about, not really doing anything at all despite the glaring fact that there is always much to do. Seems to be a recurring theme with me, in fact.

But then again, I've got a nasty cold so I suppose I'm excuses from doing anything at all by that. I've been writing a bit lately; finally being able to produce something with alarming frequency. Of course, that's all relative, but it's certainly something. It's coming together nicely enough, I suppose, though as always there's so much to be done it's all rather depressing.

It's all rather depressing at the moment (You gloomy fucker, -God), actually. I was due to go to a party this Saturday but that fell through, unfortunately, putting a damper on the entire weekend. Then of course there's the fact that I can barely sit up straight because I'm so dizzy (You need more expletives, you're no good. -God) from whatever the hell sort of virus I've got. And then there's the constant bitching of my very sentience. I'd very much like to retreat back into being an amoeba (Hah! No such luck, -God).

In fact, when I think about it, I feel positively Marvin.

(You're a lot of fun, you know that? Worthy of a good laugh. -God)

Oh, shut up.

(Har! -Entirety of the modern pantheon)

We all have these entries were you are simply feeling guilty for letting all the people who do not really care at all down. We also have these entries were we feel very guilty for making these people who do not really care at all read these long and unfriendly sentences; quite a pain, aren't they? I say we say no to long sentences such as this one, because I am certain we can all agree upon one thing: they are awfully annoying and in retrospect, so is this entire post - so then, you ask, why don't you simply shut down your client, crawl into a corner and die while the rest of the world denies to watch, but is gleeful and happy nonetheless? Golly, I am turning into quite the goth.

On a second thought, I'd rather go rot in a corner than become one of that lot. Useless bunch of wankers, they are. Deus! I made a readable sentence! That won't do at all. But oh well, I'm growing lax in my old age; so I am afraid you will have to pardon me. That, or look the other way self-consciously as I ramble on about life, the universe and nothing at all.

As I have exhausted the topic of midgets and hamsters, I am at loss on what to rave on about - I never was one for writing anything which was actually of any importance unless it was currently digging its considerable dental horrors into my proverbial and very real behind (quite an idiosyncrasy there), but oh well. I have always had an Ass of Steel, anyway. He is a very trusty ass. I usually lend him my rucksack, though he is awfully slow. Steel did never make for good bone structure. I call him Albert.

As for the random fact of the day, according to my latest english essay concerning Australia, their prime export are kangaroos.

Come on, Albert. We're off.

Oh, come on on then, don't be such a stubborn ass.

OoO

Now the question is, should I add an exclamation mark to that statement, or perhaps a questiomark? Or perhaps, I should ignore all rules of syntax and add an apostrophe? The possibilities are endless - pity that I can't think of any of them. This is going to be a very rambling entry, because at the moment my typing skills are severely lacking and I shall veil that fact in loads upon loads of, well, rubbish. I am surprisingly good at that. Unfortunately for everyone - not to seclude the midgets, seeing as they are a minority, and prejudice is bad as South Park has educated me. Mm'kay. With the midgets aside, let's move on to the main course.

Hamsters.

I have been promptly informed by numerious persons that my beloved mother smells much akin to a hamster - this I find very upsetting but seeing as this course of inquiry might lead to embarrassing family secrets and such, I shall discontinue this endeavour and instead move onto something rather even more interesting.

The end.


No midgets were harmed during the creative process of this post.
What happened after this process concluded is besides the point.

Nothing quite like not sleeping. Which is amazingly, true, seeing as not not sleeping would be sleeping, and therefore the complete opposite. Simple 0 1. But then again, you have the added variable of being in a coma. So nothing quite like not sleeping, while not being in a coma. But is a coma simply a state of deeper sleep? It's time for Google, kids!

On a second thought, I never liked Google. Much prefer Websters.com

co·ma1
n. pl. co·mas
A state of deep, often prolonged unconsciousness, usually the result of injury, disease, or poison, in which an individual is incapable of sensing or responding to external stimuli and internal needs.

All right, so let's say it's a deeper state of sleep

( sleep
n.
a. A natural periodic state of rest for the mind and body, in which the eyes usually close and consciousness is completely or partially lost, so that there is a decrease in bodily movement and responsiveness to external stimuli. During sleep the brain in humans and other mammals undergoes a characteristic cycle of brain-wave activity that includes intervals of dreaming.
b. A period of this form of rest.
c. A state of inactivity resembling or suggesting sleep; unconsciousness, dormancy, hibernation, or death. )

Thusly, coma must be a more definite word for sleep, its use is simply to clarify the variables of the verb sleep, specifically concerning the definition showed in the above c).
So, with this in mind, we can conclude with the fact that there are only two states, sleep, and not sleep. Therefore, the opening statement remains a simple binary. So at 0209, I am not sleeping, nor in any state of unconsciousness.

I am 1.

Fuck.

I suppose I should type something - what I should type, however, escapes me. I'm in a bit of a well, sour mood considering I've got

• a headache


• sore muscles


• what seems to be a lovely cold


• an alien civilisation somewhere about my body - feels like it's currently experiencing the nuclear age and spacefaring within my head


• good bit of crankiness


• An assignment I should definitely work on regarding Norway's military and aid-related forces deployed abroad

To make a short story unnecessarily shorter, I'm ready to go to town. Other than pointless complaining and bitching, I honestly don't know what else there is to say. I'd spout out some revolutionary and ground-breaking new theory or hypothesis if my fingers would actually hit the keyboard accurately. But no.

So I'm afraid you must all go without.

"Stop being an ass, you ass."

Yeah, yeah.

Till later. When I come back from the living dead (though I am in doubt whether the former adjective applies or not).

God is me.

God is P(all)=1/infinite

Make sense? It should.

It's all quantum! Hah!

This seems to be a recurring theme - sitting in Economics, bored absolutely senseless. Another recurring theme is also the fact that I don't have one! I'm simply procrastinating with the best of them. And well, that's always interesting to read, isn't it? No, it isn't, you dolt. Now why does that comment remind me of Mireille? :D

The drums open up with a fast-paced beat, first guitar joining in seamlessly, emulating, though not copying. Fade into the background, giving way to the bass and the drums, setting an interesting backdrop to the vocals that are introduced, cleanly.

... egoism dictates human relations
a world where fashion outshines morality
here success is written in blood-red colours
designed by the thirst for

The vocals make a U-turn and switch to fuzzy growls, accompanied beautifully by the hardening guitar riffs.
power ...

gather the faithful and propose a toast
to the epoch of indifference

Oh, such truth hidden behind such seemingly harsh words and lyrics. Why are we so indifferent? So apathetic? Why am I thus? Why has this disease of apathy afflicted me? Believers and disciples of not.

an all to ordinary story
with aftertaste so bitter
forced to be someone I don't want to be
I'm losing myself. sinking deeper down
I'm caught in the world wound web

Framed so beautifully by its instrumental backdrop, so Zeppelin-esque in its imagery. Drums beating in the hopelessnes, riffs taunting your uncaring frame of mind.

...a time represented by the void
an excuse without content
stuck in the abyss of existence
with a content void of...

Heaviest riff of the song beating in its point, what is your excuse to not care? To not see what you have done?
...excuse ...

It continues... But I must be calling my darling. Musical nirvana shall be postponed.

....

Hmm, I just cleaned my keyboard and I found the following items within:

• Breadcrumbs ad-infitum (I could feed a third-world country with this keyboard, fancy that)


• Some sticky mass that is supposedly Coke +2 years - either that, or I discovered a new element


• Rice - so when did I turn asian (and since when was rice GREEN?!)


• Pieces of an eraser


• An alien artifact (don't ask me how it got there - my keyboard was abducted and anal-probed by inquisitive aliens. So my keyboard's american...)


• Remnants of an ancient culture (yes, Atlantis sunk in my keyboard)

No, this post has no importance to the greater well-being of your species, nor will it evolve your thoughts or mind in any considerable way - well, that's not entirely true. Two steps forward, and four steps back! And yes, I was joking.

About the rice.

Sitting at school during economics - always entertaining that. You can just feel the stimuli from such an.. an interesting subject...

Can't you just feel the sarcasm? Spend five hours a week staring at Excel. It was useful for about, oh, three weeks? Ah well. No point in fretting. I shall be productive or the dogs shall harry me till I am bleeding and weary. Hunted. Jees. The dogs.
If that didn't make sense to you, then don't worry - if it did, then please don't kill me :D It's a joke, it's a jo.. no, no not the knife! Oh, not the eye oh god! Not the eyeeee!

Yes.

Now that I am as one-eyed as the Valfader I shall move on to the greener pastures of Elysium... Oh, wait, I'm not dead. Fine and dandy (taste the influence).



On a more serious note, I just started reading up on the Rocknes accident - for those of you who don't know, a norwegian merchant vessel hit shore and capsized in a fjord. 18 people were killed and quite a few are still missing - presumably dead now. Amongst them are primarily Phillipinos as they make up the main body of our merchant vessel crews. Since I am not a very pious person, praying isn't my fortè, so I will stick to dedicating my thoughts to the people who lost near ones, and those whose fate is still unknown.


"Nå går vi rundt"

Sleep is overrated. After a good night of sleep, that is.

By Aksel Sandemose, a Norwegian/Danish author, in the book "En flyktning krysser sitt spor" ("A refugee crosses his tracks") on typical smalltown mentality. It's brilliant.

( The Jante Law )

So I suppose this is going to be my generic opening/hello/I am who I am/I'm trying to be witty/I think I'm witty/Blah kind of post. And no, I am not trying to be clever, I lost the will to attempt cleverness, oh, around six hours ago - pulling an all-nighter really beats it out of you. Beats you down, and kicks every little bit of cleverness, eloquence and whatnot out of your weary, sleep-deprived carcass of a body. Sounds morbid, doesn't it? Well, come to think of it, it really is. But then again, I can be morbid if I want to. Jes, I can!
I'm not really going to bother giving an introduction to who I am right now, it'll all unfold like such a beautiful flower, opening its lovely petals one by one as the sunshine of the world bathes it in its ... dark, dull, gray light that never shines upon anything worth its true light? Ah, random bursts of eloquence and madness. Lovely. All that I need now, really. My inner poet clawing his way out through my chest, spattering the computer desk in front of me with blood in a rather Alien-esque fashion; which, I might add, I'd rather if it didn't, seeing as I've just cleaned the bleeding desk and I'd rather not do it again, thank you.

Other than that, what else is there to tell?

Andreas

PS: Yes, thoughts are a-comin'. Not right now, though.