All too real, already

Dont ask but 11:36 pm I suddenly knew how he cut her so smoothly into half, including the bones…in one go.
Without any pre-thought…not even for a second…just this one line: “He must have used an axe.” Wow, where did that come from.
The case: Elizabeth Short,of course.
After a week of “forced” holiday spending most of my time reading a book about prostitutes who study philosophy.
A word about the guardian article below. Fascinating fact huh…children, the objects in a family triangle, rather than subjects die at the peak of summer…though a father is not a serial killer when he murders two of his children and spares the third for it to remember, be a symbol of the act (No, this wasnt in the article; I just made it up though it could happen).
I am on a hot trail to finally finding out about psychopaths…well, I discovered a couple of books with papers of psychological studies.

I imagine when I learn everything I will know how you do it one day and in the worst case scenario save you from damnation/the death penalty.
Always on my mind that brain waves cannot provide the ultimate answer…and some of those papers were rejected by scientific journals in the 90s.
Wanna put a bet on the reason!
“No human being could ever show such high results.”

He asks: “Were you ever sexually abused?”
I say I don’t know. It’s true.
He asks again. Same answer. My brain doesn’t want to remember and despite the comics my fantasy has little to do with sexual motivation. Only desire, where the crucial difference lies.

Before I descend into a ghostly bookshop department (with a chair matching exactly the blunt convincing green of my top) I see a woman holding the hand of a five year old. She wears a faded purple shirt with a clock on the front and rabbit ears assembled loosely around.
What have I got to do with time despite that this human made concept is all around me? It’s as if David Lynch wrote an adaptation of Alice in Wonderland, making me a centre figure.

With the gentle buzzing sound from the escalators upstairs and me facing book titles like “How common sense fails” (actually a subtitle of “Everything is obvious”) and “Living with limits”. I make a note how everyone carefully avoids freedom by thinking within the box. Intelligence as dangerous upper class phenomena for the working class.
Then I think more about if I should join my parents in Casavio, near Venice but will, in the afternoon, decide against it, then shove a vegetable pizza in the oven and pretend that it’s all too real already.

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