Looking for Morpheus. A Moral Tale

There are insomniacs, who can’t fight it, and those who, having aged against their will, start waking up earlier and earlier. Those who work night-shifts. Certain artists, too, who find it better to create when the world around them is asleep, and the heavy-winged moths, who prefer life in the dark. And there I sit, with bulging eyes, silly and lonely, staring at my screen.

I am not suffering, I am not creating. Nor am I having a wild night.

I sleep too much. Too early, all the time, too long, every day. With all this rest in store, I can't sleep tonight. My mind is saying yes, my body is saying no. He doesn’t give a dime -this fanatic- he is awake. And my pavlovian mind is drooling over slumber. So I wander around like a tormented soul, and I dream of sleeping.

I never should have drunk that darn coke.

Aesthetic Shock

The roaring tube. I was stuck between a Viking and an ornamental twit, staring blankly at the floor trying hard to listen to my Ipod. All of a sudden, right between the Twisted Sisters and Nick Drake, I saw a beautiful face - a brooding melancholy young man, with a chiselled chin, broad shoulders and dreamy eyes- the epitome of manliness, right there, reading, in front of me. I transferred my gaze and stared blankly at him.
Bond Street Station. He got up.

Swoon, Swoon…
Murder.

Strapped in hermetically sealed trousers, his legs looked like a transplant from an emaciated elf. Two ridiculous twiglettes beneath a gigantic torso, lanky limbs vacuumed into oblivion by skinny jeans that censored everything on their way.

Ladies and Gentlemen, may I present to you The Bumless Wonder!

His low-cut denim hung down a missing butt (which I would like to report), along spindly legs and all the way down to…a pair of pink converses.He got up and chirped away in Spanish, followed by a friend who looked like he had just fled the Merry Kingdom of Hobgoblins.

As if girls wearing skinny-jeans weren’t bad enough, with the raging competition between the Sausage Patty Society and the Distressed Matchstick Club. But men! And Spanish ones, to top it all! This experience has turned me into a magnanimous soul. To the British male fashion victims who roam all over the capital in their skinnies: You will survive the grotesque of these trousers.

After all, you almost invented Rock.