Closing in
How about if I am the one observed, followed, traced. What if I am the one desired and wanted -I thought today on my way to the gym. How about if there's people with walkie-talkies watching what size coffee I drink and what magazine I pick up. What if there's phone calls, text messages, e-mails, faxes and letters being sent from over here to over there, then forwarded up there describing my whereabouts. Then some more instructions will come back and the following will get closer, more detailed and perhaps easier.
How about if they are closing on me as-I-type this lines? They already have pictures, videos, e-mails and conversations with friends. They know the web pages I visit; all the files I've downloaded from the Internet; people that write to me and those I write to; they know what makes me laugh and why I drink, and what I drink.
Would they know about the pictures on my corckboard and my piggy bank? or the 50+ pens and pencils that I have on my desk in a nice glass that I've been stealing over the last couple years from all over the place? Would they know how my bank account has been shrinking, steadily, for the last months?
I always take the same route to work: do they have people following me or am I so predictable on my driving that they just save money on gas and wait at the locations where I always go? Do they know that I go to Barnes and Noble and Borders to read magazines but almost never buy one?
Do they have a copy of all the porn that I've ever watched over the years? Even from my early beginnings with that slow-as-hell dial up connection at my parent's place?
Oh, shit! Maybe they even know that when I go to the gym sometimes I cheat myself skipping the number 4 and 7 on my 10-repetition series. One thing they know, and I'm sure this is going to show up in the trial, is that I sometimes don't shower, and some others just dress out of my dirty laundry bag.
They are breathing right on my neck; I can feel it, I can sense it. I know this 70+ degrees in January are here for a reason; this is a sign. This is a moment of clarity -as I always say when I'm high. This is The Truth himself (or herself, or perhaps itself). This is when I'll have to face the jury, sitting on that wooden chair after removing my hand from the Bible, and when the questions will start to flow. Answers will see the light of the courtroom, and the light of the day, printed in papers and magazines. Answers will be all over the place; maybe not my answers but those of the plaintiffs, as I'll be already condemned even before the trial begins.
They're closing in, slowly but steady. They are letting me drink and party and dance and get high, and they are letting me fuck here and there, and they are letting me think that there'll be a brighter tomorrow for me, letting me go to school and get friends and work and own a car and a blogspot for as when they jump on me, there will be no way to run, not even a will to run. My eyelids will weight a ton and my feet that had ran on water would feel like a bag full of bricks.
The charges on me are clear, I won't deny them. I have one foot on the banana peel and one on the "guilty" sign. Even though there would be no offer to negotiate, I wouldn't do it anyway. I would let them stick it all the way till the hilt and beyond if they feel like it. My crimes are not a joke and the probes are crystal clear. Those probes though, need and HAVE to be backed up by a witness or witnesses in order to be able to use them. I just wonder who will point her/his/their finger(s) at me, saying with that confidence in their eyes, their hair perfectly combed, yes your Honor that man right there with the red hair and the glasses and the cosmopolitan look that is the man and yes I will say it again and as many times as necessary that is the man your Honor and ladies and gentleman from the Jury there's no doubt in my mind and as ya'll have seen that is the one and I know your Honor that I shouldn't address the jury but that's the man yes the one with the red hair and the glasses the one with the chin up like if he was better than we all that's the man please hand me the Bible I'll say it with my hand on the Bible that that's HIM!
How about if they are closing on me as-I-type this lines? They already have pictures, videos, e-mails and conversations with friends. They know the web pages I visit; all the files I've downloaded from the Internet; people that write to me and those I write to; they know what makes me laugh and why I drink, and what I drink.
Would they know about the pictures on my corckboard and my piggy bank? or the 50+ pens and pencils that I have on my desk in a nice glass that I've been stealing over the last couple years from all over the place? Would they know how my bank account has been shrinking, steadily, for the last months?
I always take the same route to work: do they have people following me or am I so predictable on my driving that they just save money on gas and wait at the locations where I always go? Do they know that I go to Barnes and Noble and Borders to read magazines but almost never buy one?
Do they have a copy of all the porn that I've ever watched over the years? Even from my early beginnings with that slow-as-hell dial up connection at my parent's place?
Oh, shit! Maybe they even know that when I go to the gym sometimes I cheat myself skipping the number 4 and 7 on my 10-repetition series. One thing they know, and I'm sure this is going to show up in the trial, is that I sometimes don't shower, and some others just dress out of my dirty laundry bag.
They are breathing right on my neck; I can feel it, I can sense it. I know this 70+ degrees in January are here for a reason; this is a sign. This is a moment of clarity -as I always say when I'm high. This is The Truth himself (or herself, or perhaps itself). This is when I'll have to face the jury, sitting on that wooden chair after removing my hand from the Bible, and when the questions will start to flow. Answers will see the light of the courtroom, and the light of the day, printed in papers and magazines. Answers will be all over the place; maybe not my answers but those of the plaintiffs, as I'll be already condemned even before the trial begins.
They're closing in, slowly but steady. They are letting me drink and party and dance and get high, and they are letting me fuck here and there, and they are letting me think that there'll be a brighter tomorrow for me, letting me go to school and get friends and work and own a car and a blogspot for as when they jump on me, there will be no way to run, not even a will to run. My eyelids will weight a ton and my feet that had ran on water would feel like a bag full of bricks.
The charges on me are clear, I won't deny them. I have one foot on the banana peel and one on the "guilty" sign. Even though there would be no offer to negotiate, I wouldn't do it anyway. I would let them stick it all the way till the hilt and beyond if they feel like it. My crimes are not a joke and the probes are crystal clear. Those probes though, need and HAVE to be backed up by a witness or witnesses in order to be able to use them. I just wonder who will point her/his/their finger(s) at me, saying with that confidence in their eyes, their hair perfectly combed, yes your Honor that man right there with the red hair and the glasses and the cosmopolitan look that is the man and yes I will say it again and as many times as necessary that is the man your Honor and ladies and gentleman from the Jury there's no doubt in my mind and as ya'll have seen that is the one and I know your Honor that I shouldn't address the jury but that's the man yes the one with the red hair and the glasses the one with the chin up like if he was better than we all that's the man please hand me the Bible I'll say it with my hand on the Bible that that's HIM!
Jean-Francois was drunk at 8:25 PM
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