seared onto my two hearts.

It’s tourist season again. They gather in the bicycle lanes where they are run down by glassy-eyed cyclists, only to get up over and over again. The blood puddle gets larger. Nobody seems to care. They smile. They never stop smiling.

You are in a cafeteria. Your food tastes like cardboard. Looking down, you realize it is cardboard. You look around. Everybody is eating cardboard. “Lecker”, they say. “Lecker lecker”, a cackling cacophony rising louder and louder. “Leckerleckerleckerleckerlecker”.

Herr Müller is standing at his window, staring at you from across the courtyard, same as every day. He never blinks. He never seems to sleep, either. He’s always been old. He’ll always be there.

You’ve never seen your neighbours, but from time to time you leave them an offering at the bottom of the stairwell in the form of a toaster, a pair of old shoes, or a box full of books with a note that says “Zum schenken”. You drop it and quickly walk away, hearing their steps approaching, reminding yourself not to ever look back.

Most people think the Buddy Bears are just cute sculptures. They’ve never listened to what’s inside of them. You have, and now sometimes you wake up screaming in the middle of the night.

The woman at the flea market tries to sell you an old radio, a pebble from the Wall and a rusty dagger. She says that with these things you will be able to talk to the dead.

Me (via ailetra)

The crossover I never knew I needed until now: PhD Comics and Pokemon

it’s saturday, and you came down to the park to jog the sea wall. you jogged the sea wall. you’re jogging the sea wall. you will jog the sea wall.  the pacific ocean is behind you and beside you and in front of you and everywhere and nowhere and there’s salt spray in your eyes and you can’t remember when the stanley park tree branches started twisting toward you as you ran.

the weather channel calls for sun next week - it always does. you put the knife back down on the counter as the dead grey rain pounds on your window. it’s going to be sunny next week. it’s going to be sunny next week.

the morning fog horns sound like moans. you all hear it but no one ever mentions it. they just sip their lattes, tucking earbuds back in and biking away.

you tried to go to target once, but as you stepped through the doors you woke up in bed. target is a myth.

in yet another vintage store on granville, the mannequins have eyes and they leer through your periphery, fingers reaching out toward you. when you whip your head around they’re still, plastic in a tutu and denim jacket once more.

you’ve already walked down this street. independent coffee shop, sushi place, vintage store, grocery, in that order. here you are again. the fog is disorienting.

the mountains are looming. the ocean is looming. cypress in the north, pacific in the west, ivy in all the yards and thick forest coming back, all sides green, thicker than marine fog. 

there are no real people on main street.

you see crows stringing the wires and raccoons under the street lights and coyotes in the playgrounds but the condos are darker and sharper and you warn your children about them, instead.