weird monologue about some nieamand strasse

“Line it with barbed wire.” Gottscheers were friends. I’m telling you about life between steps, on wooden floors, on the pavement, and trying to avoid cars and pedestrians. What are pedestrians? It’s all I see that makes me deeply depressed night and day, sipping coffees and gasping, living in the belly of a machine, antagonizing with minuscule particles, calling it a day. I opened the windows, closed them. I tried to make it for today. As for tomorrow, it is not here yet; we live in the realm of nothing calling us. Where should I begin? I’ll begin with the start of my astray life on the shore of the lake amongst the trees and the bushes. I saw what we call ecstasy. An old classmate, our diaries in hand, met after lunch and sat on a tree trunk, pondering the bad news that kept us from escaping. We were part of a scheme I tried to break free from. He never knew. When I got out of the borders to the wildness, a city welcomed me with violent fists and sounds, pavements and more borders and stairs, walking them up and down, touching walls and searching for a nail. That nail was nailed on the bare wall, waiting for your arrival. My room was on Niemand Street. But amidst the chaos, I longed for freedom, a hope that kept me going.

“noeuheting stinging stoed got hyats fiedingting okntong yuinginsfuing,” he said. The door opened, and there he was, the man I went after with a letter in his hand. He stood with his white hair behind his ears and his black glasses. Your words flowed like water on white paper, watering my essence. You called me, my love, like an old, archaic voice from afar, a weird echo. My love, that’s all. After that, I couldn’t sleep very well; my heart was beating, I couldn’t sleep, the alarm was next to me, and the clock was tickling tic tic tic all night long—out from the window, inexplicable, drunken voices. Even my sleep wasplagued by nightmares that woke me up sweating many times, with my body on the floor into the darkness of the room. I often heard steps outside the door, but no one was there. I turned on the side lamp just in case. I took a sip of water before returning to whatever episode I was in. On my side table with a floral-pattern tablecloth and my watch, my glasses resting next to it, drunkards outside my window, again and again, the clock in silence.

The room in Niemand Strasse was my shelter for no more than a week, thanks to Arn, who became my roommate. It happened one night. We met for drinks in the pub, and afterward, we strolled down the long river where he showed me the apartment with pride, and with the door keys in my hand, I became his official roommate. The apartment was next to a train station, which was loud all day; my window faced the station’s second exit. I used to peek at people coming and going as a pastime. Even with the company, my roommate was absent until the afternoon, when we dined, mostly on tomato soup and questionable meat from a can. I left my room very rarely, and that was for a walk to train my muscles. It was a strange time back then; loneliness made me think of ways to destroy you; you see, time was no longer linear; names didn’t matter; my past life seemed an obscure background story. It was a miserable sight, neglecting myself for months. I stopped shaving and grew a beard, a peculiarly ugly thing going on because it didn’t grow nicely, with some hairs expanding more on one side than the other. Six months had passed after my escape, and I hadn’t encountered anyone from the past. The thought that it was safe enough to make my attempt and move out of Europe was in my mind. Enough money was saved in my wallet, which I kept secretly in a hole in the damp wall for this occasion. Because I didn’t feel ready to leave, I had to find motivation and chase my freedom, but these six months drove me backward and made me lazy. What was my plan? Erik told me to escape Europe on the big ship to America. He had uncles there who were willing to help me find a job after I changed my name into an English one and got a new passport; that was important, but the situation was getting slow, and there was no news about my new passport.

Now, about the reason I wanted to destroy you, it was a powerful feeling of revenge inside, and violent feelings were arising. I’m sorry for that. You never replied to my letter. I didn’t masturbate for months. Can you believe it? And one morning in March, the sun through the sheer curtains woke me up with a hard-on for the first time after that long period. And so I wished for a beautiful woman’s lips stroking my dick with the tongue, flowing it with saliva, and deep-throating it. At the same time, I trembled and screamed and then shot my sperm into the air. I was sure that a shooting like that would heal my depression to get the fuck out of there. A blow job can do so much, but I had no money for a hooker. I had to be very conservative with my spending and flirting with a woman so that she could suck my dick back into my room; my aristocratic upbringing didn’t allow me that. I was desperate, masturbating three to five times per day; I thought I would get crazy, so I started stalking women on the street. My desire was so intense. I followed them from behind, focusing my eyes on their hips and their asses and how they moved, trying to keep as alive these images as possible for my masturbating sessions. My weird situation became so apparent to my roommate that he brought me his girlfriend and proposed a threesome. His girlfriend was not the attractive type. Her lips were too thin, and her calves were malnourished. She had a very disappointed facial expression and barely talked with a faint voice, so she wasn’t the ideal sexual object to take out my need, but I didn’t have any other choice, so I succumbed. Our lovemaking was a wild, strenuous session after session. Mari, her name, might have lacked attractiveness, but she had patience and passivity with me and my unstoppable hunger. And Arn mostly sat in a chair against the opposite wall of his bed. He mainly was staring at us with an enigmatic guise, watching unfazed as his bed shook and making squeaking noises from the violent penetrations of my dick into Maris ’ black-haired pussy. Poor Mari, she was making small noises for hours to no end while I, from behind, was keeping tight her hands with one arm and with the other squeezing her small ass and fucking it on and on. I remember at some point, I was penetrating her asshole for so long that she started squirting shit all over me, and that didn’t make me stop, but I became more manic to continue. For the first time, Arn’s facial expression looked amused but scared. That was interesting. Anyway, Maris’s visits at some point were less and less cause she found a secretary job in another city and had to commute a lot.