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Weblog | I don't like the word blog, it's ugly. Anyway, new content happens here. (Swedish dito)

About me and the site | Twenty-something male who likes text. Obsessed with things such as books, reality, communication, and one or two tv-shows.

Archives | Things written here since... well, 2001. Some of it is good, some is utter shait.

Books | Books read, not books written. So far I've struggled to maintain unpublished.

Photo | I like my camera and it likes me.

Links | Outwards, away, flee.

e-mail | J. Nicklas Andersson

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2002-06-04

It was hot in the bus. The air could have been replaced with molten lava and I wouldn’t have noticed any change. I tried to do the best of the situation so I cranked up Garbage on the Discman and tried to sleep. This was a folly idea, as always. I wanted some peace and quiet, the world wanted otherwise.

Two seats behind me they sit. A guy and a girl. They don’t know each other — that much is evident — but they still go on and have a booming discussion. I raise the volume and drift into euphoric bliss. Then the batteries died. Twenty minutes left on the trip and I had to sit and listen. The guy didn’t spoke much but the girl did.

Her will to have a conversation was connected to a piston engine on overdrive. She just kept on going without any notion to ever stop. Each silent pause was a treat to this planet and had to be fought ferociously. Silence kills. So she kept on babbling about whatever she could think of.

-- And then we had to stand outside or else her father would have entered the pub in his pyjamas and dragged us out.
-- Really?
--Yeah, he would.

I stared to hum in order to keep my mind occupied. I didn’t want to know. I still don’t. I’ll have nightmares about old men driving around in cars in the middle of the night, dressed in ugly pyjamas and that has nothing else to do but to drag people into their cars. And all this because I didn’t have any spare batteries.