Tonya

There was another phone call the following day. The phone, mounted on the kitchen wall at the end of the corridor cried out loudly, but I thought it would be inappropriate to pick it up as me and my girlfriend Tonya were making love. She was on top of me, and as she was focussing on another climax, the ringing signals were not able to reach her. I couldn’t help being disturbed. And while Tonya was riding me I stared into the shadowy space of the corridor and waited until the answering machine would take over. I can’t afford to loose Tonya. She has been filling up the empty space that was left in my life after I got divorced from Laura McNeely. I guess she’s so sex hungry because she’s only 22. While I was trying to pick something up of what was recorded on the tape of the answering machine, Tonya came a second time, breathing heavily and softly moaning.

I only got a chance to listen when my girlfriend was totally satisfied. Although she insisted to go down on me, I said it was a better idea to hit the shower.

Sometimes I wonder when she will found out about the coffins in the attick. It would be a real waste to silence her. Of course, you never know. She’s still young, and when we make love, we never kiss or look into each others eyes. Making love is quite mechanical and mostly driven by an animal kind of magnetism, and I’m sure she doesn’t feel any “love” for me, but as these things go : before you know there’s a bound, and before you know she starts getting curious about the guy she shares her lust with and goes sneaking up on things.

Luxemburg station, 22:53

I had a meeting with him at Luxemburg station. For some obscure reason he showed up at 22:53. I had left at 22:41.
These are confusing times. I wonder what will happen next.

Even the Dead Decay

Even the dead decay, so

sometimes I walk along the graves to feel related again. It's not just weathered faces and broken tombs. There's more to it than just fading portraits, as we are all connected on an immaterial level, once we cross the line. Once I cross the line, a nebulous realm of fading souls shows up. I walk up to the weeping willow, where she waits for me. I kiss the nose of a lovely little girl that died by falling from a balcony. Not far from where I live. Years ago though. We walk hand in hand sometimes.

I hear her last screaming as she falls onto the street. But as I walk up to her grave, she takes my hand and whispers in my ear that I shouldn't worry about her anymore.

There’s a sergeant from the English army that was put in a grave carrying the wrong name. I notice his presence. He knows I’m around, but refuses to meet me. It’s a shame, because I’m very grateful for what the English did for my country in those days. I would really like to meet the one that is behind the name on the sergeant’s grave, but up to now he never showed up.

I’m too sensitive. My ability to feel empathy is overseized. There hardly is any material proof of what is happening at the cemetries that I visit so often. Mostly they laughed at me when I try to explain a little. Some refused to see me again. Other said I should join the league of superheroes. I don’t think it’s funny nor is it giving me supernatural powers. I can’t direct them. I can’t use any of the information that is been passed on to me by the dead. I only feel the fear of the balcony girl, and the sudden pain that crushed her tiny life, time and time again as some cascading threat that survived her falling and went on living like an infinite echo. Hitting me every time I look into her eyes and notice her tears.
I also met a dead man that claims being poisened by his wife. He has some very strong arguments to proove it. Unfortunately every material witness disappeared with time. Every trace vanished. On top of that, this man shares a grave with his wife. Maybe I should ask her out, but some of the others say she is ghostless. I haven’t found out yet why some of them are what the other call “ghostless”. I think they only consist of earthly residues. Worn and out of fashion clothes in a suitcase somewhere.