If you dive too deeply into the murky waters of everyday life’s troubles, you risk drowning; therefore, it’s better to grasp onto the nets of novelist fishermen. Phantom titles resemble that fattened worm that blindly tempts you to sink your teeth into the hook with all your might, as if tomorrow didn’t exist. Woven with various dreamy emotions, in the multicolored net, there is no place for pessimistic gray logic.

Soured mouths salivate for just a crumb of that happiness sugar, that dramatic authors promise to sell. Collections of emotions packaged in blocks of paper, bound and tightly secured with magical imaginings, transform the fish into a hunter of nets and hooks. The pitch-black ocean cannot compete with the cunning novelists; it offers no such wonder.

To abandon routine, the only floating thing in stagnant waters, one pays with blood, not gold. Salvation from the tragic communion with decomposition at a triangular table at the ocean’s bottom makes you forget being served as a course to third parties. Any price, however insatiable and predatory, seems trivial when it comes to killing monotony.

Hidden beneath hollows of dark circles, the corny eyes have grown weary of the black-and-white monochrome existence. Such extinguished eyes surrender unconditionally to intoxication in illusory elixir, be it toxin, poison, or acid. The addict will beg to drink, even a single sip of deception, needed to subdue the vampiric rationality.

Intoxicated by the syndrome of a Stockholm love set against roasting flames, the fish trade fantasy for reality. Just as the sparkling drops of overheated oil jump and spread everywhere across the pan, so does the heart of the prey leap and twist under the adrenal effect. Delirious sensations can only find refuge in fatality.

Yearning for a fairy tale, lovers of love, the miserable Bovarians, don’t know how to calculate. The future stops breathing when the utopia of an ideal world takes the throne of the kingdom of consciousness. Holding tightly to a tragic-romantic novel, ending up on the plate of some barbarian seems like an absurd joke.

Dipping into the fictional net, instead of saving them from the endless darkness of troubles, led them straight into the digestive system, deep in the stomach of cannibal life. Side by side with the gastric juices of dissolution, bone and tainted spirit get disintegrated among dreams. The naivety of escape, instead of quenching their torments, degraded them into gas, excretion, and urine.

Jona Cenameri