He remembered he read something like that photograph he just snapped. The sensation of the brush from... what ? he wondered. The spots of deep and dark almost invisible black and yellowish cracks eating up the frustrated memories entrapped upon a paper cage fascinated him beyond his own expectations. He wondered where that sensation came from. His heart started beating madly. He flung the photograph out through the window, his fist shattering the integrity of the glass. The white of his eyes turned to chaos and he took an incredible deep roaring breath, almost trembling and cold. His head that was about to burst turned dangerously pale. He looked down at his fist. Not a scratch. He'll get used to the grumbling of the city, always working out new ways to control people's thoughts. Right from his top-floor apartment, he could hear the city's cries emanating from our sadness. He would jump in the lake from warning signs to sand to plunge and flee and free his bounds in the water. 'The circus has escaped the mad house!' Only a few can be trusted. He watches currents of umbrellas drifting over the city, following the whistling of a phantom-orchestra conducted by a hooted madman He has seen so many things -- things he can only keep for himself. Where did he feel that ?
He usually remembers things well. He realized he could see things differently and switch his epileptic like gush of thoughts on and off. That was a mistake. The switch grew old and tired like the young yet functioning man he was. The switch would get stuck from time to time and he would dive into a whirling machinery of confused interpretations. The world outside and the world upstairs seemed to him the worst antagonistic aspects of what the Other incarnates to him. This interests him no more except for what he or she has to offer. People are to him some sort of hollow racketing trains shouldering their way through mud , speed light wires of individuals' unique lenses which surveillance screens is Money. He knew there is something in there lurking behind electrified neuron chains. The Other is shrouded behind gas masks worn out and foul. Falling into the leitmotiv lie from the bureaucratic farce is exactly the same as keeping the myth of achievement real -- everything is gonna be alright except peoples have to die to drip-feed and oil the Machinery. He never thought his ever-lasting century would collapse so quickly.