True story

There's nothing quite like an ice-cold brewski after an especially shitty day at work. Even if after, in this context, happens to be at 6:40AM. Cheers!

Tick of the clock

The bus driver looked like a blend between Roy Scheider and Steve McQueen. Grey haired, with a creased face that seemed somehow out of place in the setting. As if belonging to a different era. Or none at all. With an ineffable air of dignity, nobility even. The bus itself was packed to the brim and smelled of fresh oranges. I didn't pay much attention to the road, as for the most part I had been engrossed in Gibson's "Zero History." There's something unsettling about his writing. Something permeating my consciousness and striking strange chords in my core, while at the same time escaping any clear definition. The closest approximation I can think of is that the dialog has a very video-clip like quality. Curt and brief yet all the while very evocative. And there are these nuggets of sentences buried in the text. One line masterpieces of description.
On arrival Poznan presented itself with an almost revolting, clinical clarity. I've grown unaccustomed to seeing the city by day (or the equivalent thereof). Maybe that's why the grayness, mud, sludge, the filth and detritus lining the sidewalks stung my eyes all the more. And Christmas? It came and it went, as every year. More importantly - we're past the winter solstice. Longer, brighter days ahead. And summer, more a mindset, or place, than season draws ever nearer.

In a state

While traversing the night on my way home, to sounds which superbly placate my nostalgia for cyberpunk (in the RPG and early-Gibsonian sense) I've witnessed the year's first snowfall in my corner of the world. Tiny flakes lit up by sodium yellow. In Wilson's Park, a film of ice, brushed white, forcing ducks into a corner of the pond still unfrozen. I found the perfect band for this winter.