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Description

Artist: Aikorn
Commissioner: Qube-Core

Artwork & Character-Design (C) Aikorn
Characters & Story (C) Qube-Core

All rights reserved.

The Night of bad Texts (was some kind of contest about literary nonsense):

A beginning. The author's misery with much brooding and equal to his end. But a beginning. Initially a beginning of the end, however the beginning.

As if you wanted to get away from the drugs your wife is teasing you about, because her daughter, who she brought into the marriage, is threatened by a dealer, is also a prostitute and a siren on top of that, while dragons live in your kitchen and a demon is trapped in the cookie jar, because the angel already lives in the bread box. A beginning of a story. My story. A crazy story. Historically very abstruse and yet a story.

A night of writing. That's how it should be. To be what it should be. What shall be. But only white. Everything white. So it is written whitish. White on white.

White. White is all I see. No matter how long I look at it, it stays white. Try to hear, but I only hear words that bind me and don't free me. They sound in my ears, but the world remains silent. The voice speaks incessantly, shows answer, salvation and consolation, but the world remains silent. Quietly in silence the first drops begin to fall, no sound, but they fall, run down the glass and taste salty.

Stare but everything remains white, nothing changes, it simply remains white. Crumpled, valuable, no longer beautiful, but so incredibly unique. Every crease, every fold, no longer smooth and new, but still beautiful.

It remains white, simply white, no matter how long I stare at it, it doesn't want to change. Thundering words in the ears, bells ringing, but the world remains silent in truth. Memories behind glassy eyes. Now it remains white, but I see more on it than the world. It may remain white forever, but what I saw remains there forever.

A whisper. A mew. Vain song full of imagination echoes through the night. But soon. In a jiffy. An old shoe flies and hits the flap. The monkey was dead, but the singer's ear-blood-singing happily took its course. But when the janitor fetches his musket, she is already scattered away. Get a move on! The red cat rushed through the alley.

The gaze of the night is rigid. A night of writing. The writing of special texts. Special texts are like a challenge! A challenge in all its grace! The thoughts fade away in the light of the old table lamp. Words begin to form.

Glistening light of dazzling colors penetrates the deep black darkness, whose inviolability remains intact despite everything. Happy shadows dance freely around through the dim glow of twilight, free of bodies they could cast.

A gleam of hope, radiantly beautiful through the refracted light, dreamy like northern lights in rainbow colors, but shattered by the prisms of darkness. Deep black threat, silent and oppressive.

A dance in eternal twilight, incessant, unleashed in the existence of shadows, without bodies and free from that oppressive order that wars itself timelessly. And yet the joy lives on in a silent dance whose music remains without any sounds.

Unbelievable! Are the words mine? There was nobody here who would have written them otherwise. Or were they? Well, if they did, then they are mine! Who finds it may keep it! Somebody should tell me I could not! It sounds good and rings in my ears like the drunk on the second floor at his own door. But now there was this thought. It should result in a "bad" text. Does not correspond to the norm. Does it? If so, as it seems to me, only me, to appear normal, I am probably not the norm, but somewhat abnormal! As smooth as this impudent cat.

A rattling. A rumbling. In the kitchen there is a racket! Is coffee worth it? Freshly brewed, hot and sensual, like my wife's voice? Whose voice makes the shrill of her daughter bearable? While dragons live in your kitchen and a demon is trapped in the cookie jar, because the angel already lives in the bread box? While her daughter throws herself to you, crying, complaining about dragons in the kitchen? While cats line up sitting over the beams of the attic flat? Walking in over the broken skylight? Climbing the prefabricated building over the life-threatening fire escape? Rust? Weather and the ravages of time? Guided by branches of the old oak tree, which wrote history as a gallows, placed by mother nature? Casual, like gangsters who own the block?

It's a shame. A canned coffee. Not the real thing, but not the worst either. What a price, it hides where the horizon ends. Sounding goes under what why where, to disappear, in spite of Cartesian tolerance. Blackcat and Gang. Dragons enthusiastic about cooking. Cookie demon and bread box angel. Cartesian tolerance, even very Cartesian - almost archaic. One, not mine, her daughter Ligeia, who cries. Originated from a woman, the mine, called Kalliope. To notice: EUER URPOKAL KLIO METERTHAL ! Stranger, but finds consolation, where the spirit is not in consolation. Your sobbing. You howl. A whisper. A mew. Eared blood singing. Follow with consolation! A clatter. A rumbling. A shotgun shot in no time without a shoe! The chili cat crashes through the window! Carefree. Unmoved.

Me and nauseous? I am only went to the bucket!

Take as it comes. Wait mutely and quietly at the front.

Rinse away all worries. Or wash. Washing, flushing flowed away. A showery shower with a feeling of refreshment. That would be the showering. Um, the right thing. The right thing to shower! So be it. So it be as it could only be. There would be one day. A distant, daiy day. When the white words on white paper prove their worth. White on white. If this distant day comes. My work appreciates. White against white. Then it will be spicy like a Chilicat.

Description

Artist: Aikorn
Commissioner: Qube-Core

Artwork & Character-Design (C) Aikorn
Characters & Story (C) Qube-Core

All rights reserved.

The Night of bad Texts (was some kind of contest about literary nonsense):

A beginning. The author's misery with much brooding and equal to his end. But a beginning. Initially a beginning of the end, however the beginning.

As if you wanted to get away from the drugs your wife is teasing you about, because her daughter, who she brought into the marriage, is threatened by a dealer, is also a prostitute and a siren on top of that, while dragons live in your kitchen and a demon is trapped in the cookie jar, because the angel already lives in the bread box. A beginning of a story. My story. A crazy story. Historically very abstruse and yet a story.

A night of writing. That's how it should be. To be what it should be. What shall be. But only white. Everything white. So it is written whitish. White on white.

White. White is all I see. No matter how long I look at it, it stays white. Try to hear, but I only hear words that bind me and don't free me. They sound in my ears, but the world remains silent. The voice speaks incessantly, shows answer, salvation and consolation, but the world remains silent. Quietly in silence the first drops begin to fall, no sound, but they fall, run down the glass and taste salty.

Stare but everything remains white, nothing changes, it simply remains white. Crumpled, valuable, no longer beautiful, but so incredibly unique. Every crease, every fold, no longer smooth and new, but still beautiful.

It remains white, simply white, no matter how long I stare at it, it doesn't want to change. Thundering words in the ears, bells ringing, but the world remains silent in truth. Memories behind glassy eyes. Now it remains white, but I see more on it than the world. It may remain white forever, but what I saw remains there forever.

A whisper. A mew. Vain song full of imagination echoes through the night. But soon. In a jiffy. An old shoe flies and hits the flap. The monkey was dead, but the singer's ear-blood-singing happily took its course. But when the janitor fetches his musket, she is already scattered away. Get a move on! The red cat rushed through the alley.

The gaze of the night is rigid. A night of writing. The writing of special texts. Special texts are like a challenge! A challenge in all its grace! The thoughts fade away in the light of the old table lamp. Words begin to form.

Glistening light of dazzling colors penetrates the deep black darkness, whose inviolability remains intact despite everything. Happy shadows dance freely around through the dim glow of twilight, free of bodies they could cast.

A gleam of hope, radiantly beautiful through the refracted light, dreamy like northern lights in rainbow colors, but shattered by the prisms of darkness. Deep black threat, silent and oppressive.

A dance in eternal twilight, incessant, unleashed in the existence of shadows, without bodies and free from that oppressive order that wars itself timelessly. And yet the joy lives on in a silent dance whose music remains without any sounds.

Unbelievable! Are the words mine? There was nobody here who would have written them otherwise. Or were they? Well, if they did, then they are mine! Who finds it may keep it! Somebody should tell me I could not! It sounds good and rings in my ears like the drunk on the second floor at his own door. But now there was this thought. It should result in a "bad" text. Does not correspond to the norm. Does it? If so, as it seems to me, only me, to appear normal, I am probably not the norm, but somewhat abnormal! As smooth as this impudent cat.

A rattling. A rumbling. In the kitchen there is a racket! Is coffee worth it? Freshly brewed, hot and sensual, like my wife's voice? Whose voice makes the shrill of her daughter bearable? While dragons live in your kitchen and a demon is trapped in the cookie jar, because the angel already lives in the bread box? While her daughter throws herself to you, crying, complaining about dragons in the kitchen? While cats line up sitting over the beams of the attic flat? Walking in over the broken skylight? Climbing the prefabricated building over the life-threatening fire escape? Rust? Weather and the ravages of time? Guided by branches of the old oak tree, which wrote history as a gallows, placed by mother nature? Casual, like gangsters who own the block?

It's a shame. A canned coffee. Not the real thing, but not the worst either. What a price, it hides where the horizon ends. Sounding goes under what why where, to disappear, in spite of Cartesian tolerance. Blackcat and Gang. Dragons enthusiastic about cooking. Cookie demon and bread box angel. Cartesian tolerance, even very Cartesian - almost archaic. One, not mine, her daughter Ligeia, who cries. Originated from a woman, the mine, called Kalliope. To notice: EUER URPOKAL KLIO METERTHAL ! Stranger, but finds consolation, where the spirit is not in consolation. Your sobbing. You howl. A whisper. A mew. Eared blood singing. Follow with consolation! A clatter. A rumbling. A shotgun shot in no time without a shoe! The chili cat crashes through the window! Carefree. Unmoved.

Me and nauseous? I am only went to the bucket!

Take as it comes. Wait mutely and quietly at the front.

Rinse away all worries. Or wash. Washing, flushing flowed away. A showery shower with a feeling of refreshment. That would be the showering. Um, the right thing. The right thing to shower! So be it. So it be as it could only be. There would be one day. A distant, daiy day. When the white words on white paper prove their worth. White on white. If this distant day comes. My work appreciates. White against white. Then it will be spicy like a Chilicat.