# Kultura > Letërsia shqiptare > Krijime në gjuhë të huaja >  Leter from the headquarters of a caotic revolutionary organisation

## qyfyri

Ferocious and rabid strangers pay the due respects to my unplowed hearth, closely watching the truth as if it were my only severed limb.  Delicate lunatics are seen roaming the walls of my untangled conscious, freely commenting on the lack of some alcoholic beverage to sooth their nerves on this taxing journey.  Last seen were the ladies of yesterday, bosoms and all, quietly strolling where my thoughts are strictly forbidden.  Strange that I should recall those beasts last, since their presence was always a never-ever closure, ready to wipe me out of a reality based cocktail of an existence.  It is through the portals which I neglect to guard that they seem to all prance in, maniacs that they are.  But what is more disturbing in this whole cacophony of mistresses and misters of dubious intentions is their knack for forcing open the doors whose existence I had discounted as a past oversimplification of my internal ecstasy.  MY UNINVITED ARE TREACHEROUS IN THEIR IGNORANCE!  Stray from their general mood and then you are in for a surprise, bound to quietly experience their fiery licks while smiling at the opportunity given to a wretch like you to acquiesce in the true meaning of perfection, suffering from your fellow man at the hand of some externality that seems impeccably justified.  Form never saw a lesser indication of its only true flaw:    Content.  Maybe they will drown in my own pool of contemplative indifference, and when their voices will scream in terror that the entrance to their deadly selves is now open, I will take up shooting, just to prove that I can drawn my own misery in some other lesser evil.  Its true, nothing can come out of this, other than the realization that perpetual mobility is a dream reserved for the immigrantly sane.  Voluptuous blondes with the least of worries, candle holding virgins with dog eating habits, under endowed Casanovas with a will that would make my groins bow down in humility, oversexed ex-housewives with a dreadful hope that the life they lead was after all a good one, filled with the joys and sorrows of a normal human.  These conniving creatures seem to close in on the truth and slowly convince it of the lie it has been living, never ceasing to amaze their own minions of the power their middle-class pockets hold.  If someone had told me that horny white women are to be blamed for the current political situation, I would have entered them all one by one, hopefully taking some of the burden off their undernourished vaginas.  
Stare at a heaving cage of a life-preserving form and immediately you will feel the need to ask yourself:  Why is it that control over these forms was somehow handed down to them?  It is as if some laboratory experiment went array and the mice now hold the plans to the maze and are supervising the new construction of a cheese shop in every second turn.  And in the meanwhile, the doctors scratch their heads and cannot seem to record these new developments.  It is all so sudden, the mice have become masters of their own fate, and noone ever intended for that to happen.  This whole existence is based on clear cut roles for each species, but now that the line is blurred a new type form is being born:  The human mouse.  
Fetishes that do not control us, but the fetishes that are their direct competitive threat, a fetish wiping plague that ends with the only spectator reduced to pity.  If there was at anytime in life the need for a good public humiliation, this is it.  Trains are now the tool of businessmice, doctormice, prostimice and so on, while we are left with transportation that is not suitable for junkies.  Have we lurked somewhere between the present state of affairs and the past in blissful idiocy so much that our on perversions are now a better bridge to a nation of fledgling men-mice?  Hey, is he still there?  Gone?  Goodhis laugh is unbearable, closer to a never ending haunting of painful proportions.
Maybe I should come closer to feel your breathing , and then maybe I have already come to close, and your breathing is only a reflection of your anxiety at feeling my luscious plump lips quivering next to yours and I only record that anxiety without accounting for my own.  A e keni pare Stelen, ajo eshte e shkurter dhe me bel te ngushte..

Next comes a tale from a faraway agglomeration of idiots and idiocies, which, due to its distance must be treated with the utmost respect.  Well, there were two artistically bulimic architects attempting to open an exhibition on castle building.  The ever present catch was that they had wagered their honesty on this fun-filled competition and were quite excited at the possibility of laying in bed with one-anothers honesty and conversing freely as if amongst lovers.  But the project had to be controlled, strangely enough through the very form which those two abhorred, poetic honesty.  They had both attained high levels of self-appreciation, but this, to put your phrases at the mercy of some ungodly sounding artistic concept, this was beyond their threshold, even as they deemed it appropriate to disassociate with their general honesty, in no way could they jeopardize their dubious future with such blasphemous paraphernalia.  Cause for alarm was a notice mentioned in the contract that whoever was caught creating out of vacuum was to be automatically disqualified and never allowed to enter the academia world again, pleasantly thrown out of such a distinguished group of well-meaning adolescent strangers and post-interesting gaol feeding poets, a conglomeration of the most incoherent academic blabber that made even me blush with envy.
Now you are set to receive the meat of this story, and I would be sad to tell you a simple truth so true to form here is the glorious detail that underlines the moral of the story:  They knew men-mice these two, and their wager was nothing but an attempt to win cheese-rights distribution over the other.  Honesty is what the old human used to call transaction, dont be surprisedits true.  I have sold you the truth just now, I expect payment in kind.

I am frail as ever in my own embrace
Kingdom that shall never come
Intuition is valued by agility
And tomorrow is just a vague yesterday
My betters are now closer to the idea
That men and their habits are verifiable
To a degree which leaves nothing
But nothing to the imagination
Closer to this than their predecessors
Damned by their own infallibility
Damned to eternal hatred of an attained goal
Deadly plagues ready to undertake cleansing
Of bubonic proportions
Deadly!

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## kulla

I come to pay my due tax. as sober as a cold morning of the faraway land, after a good night sleep has given meaning to whatever reality I might have found myself in the vague tomorrow of yesterday, I do as I'm told and I cough up. thrown in this no win situation, -for if I see it from another perspective, if I take a democratic view about it, I might be acused of following the mass instinct of man-mice- I shake the sleep, buzzing with the idea that my spin might give spin to other sleeping creatures like myself, with firm feet, I set to walk the path I arrogantly call pre-destined. as foreign hurdles, hostile and seemingly unjumpable arise in my way, I ask myself the question: are we a species past their time, living in an era that doesn't belong to us, or are we yet to know our climax? I know one thing. I am here to survive, to wrestle the beasts in my way, to kill tham if I can and keep a trophy of my preys, until that untimed cliche will reach me too and I'll be gone like others before me. what bothers me most is not the powers I master, is not whether I am worth the distance or not, or what will I do once I've reached my destiny, but can my followers long the distance with me? can they feed from my spin as I feed from theirs?
some people talk of truths, earthly and unearthly ones as if they own this truths. and they are right. they are people with vision,  a form of higher order and more beautiful harmony drag them by their tingling fingertips away from their unpeacful existence. these are the ones that in times of war want peace and in times of peace want war. what they have is never enough, yet they sell. to them I pay my taxes and in return I sell them my truths. 
GENIUS NEEDS NO INVITATION. I heard this in one of those happy ending stories where god trully descended with a car. it was the most real thing I heard in this story and I think it is true,  but spinning makes you sceptic, some might say: in denial. now, is that the first or the last step, or is it simply one of the two surfaces that form each step? and if that's so, which surface is denial and which content? I think denial is the horizontal one, it keeps you steady for fear of not taking the steps down. the other one is tiring, but once on top, you become Rambo.

I pay my taxes, I sell my truths. 

honestly building castles I'd like to think of as honest, I leave for the more mundane life.

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## qyfyri

I never seem to fail in my involuntary encounters with docile preachers, ready to take up arms against the complex and boil it down for the masses.  What tires me is not their ability to procreate, neither is their simplicity a formidable enemy to face.  What exhausts me is their egocentricity, a pure and linear form of self-admiration.  You talk of your spins as if they were the whirlwinds to some new and never before chartered territory to which you exclusively, hold the map.  And then there is that piece about truths, earthly and unearthly ones; how did we come to multiply their existence into more than one?  Where did the entrance to my truth become universal so that it can be categorized by restless humans?  Did I allow my truth to become so seemingly common that once you set foot on it you felt to be at home????
Trivializing honesty by mentioning it does not justify your wanton use of the concept.  Qeni qe leh nuk te ha..  and so the dog licks its own wounds after realising that the blood coagulating on his ragged coat is nothing but his own oversimplifications coming back to haunt him.  Castrate any thought of honesty in any writing, be that yours or mine.  There are no perceived boundaries to honesty, and your strife to establish clear honest barriers between mine and thine cosmoses is nothing but an empty promise to pay a tax to some elusive form of integrity.  Lesser evils have done even less to earn their eternal damnation into the pits of darkness.  

Rambo was not a man, he was not a mouse either.  He was a lunatic with a will to kill cats.

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## kulla

if you sell, sell, sell,
what is left to sell 
but your soul?

do you still give a .... about the pit of eternal darkness, or is that all you can master to sell? for if that is all, let the docile preachers be arrogant in their own bathrooms, in front of distorted mirrors.

"honestly, master, your kingdom is the greatest of them all. there is no one who can .... with you without thinking his last hair off about the true consequences. even if they did.... with you, they would be the ones left fuc*ked in the batlefields".

".... mirror! I think it's trying to .... me. why did it say, honestly"?

the spins are mine until I reach the destiny to which the momentum of my spins will take me. as for the map, you are wrong. I'm not the only one to hold it. there is another dog guarding it, one who doesn't bark as much as me, but with a bite that might make you reconsider your theory on the lesser evils. 

and if I may, I want to finish this with my last revelation on honesty and economics:

A true lie can make you a penny.
A lie, if it's sold as the truth can make you a millionare.
And the truths are priceless.

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## liliella

The volunteering of the truth is as taxing as an arrogant **** playing hard to get. 
Honesty gives you enough rope to hang yourself, all but achieving that meticulous plan of a beautified death. By far enhancing the incredulity of a veritable sense of awe for the deserved execution of lies. Truth never saw a more fit occupation than that of the assassin hired to rape you. I grin at such welcomed invasions of truth proclaiming a peaceful war. Warren Pearce my arse! Tolstoy sure as hell didnt factor in the element of surprise, the existence of mice men. And **** Steinbeck too!
	       My vague intentions are somewhat determined by the will to trade off on the truth cause in a world of mice-men one is recklessly bound to buy in the mass production of cheese. I spin away from the trajectory of an inherited destiny for fear of succumbing to the purchasing of truth in these chain-letters from such proclaimed organizations whose goal is to protest the venerated truth. A fair enough mission.  
	           If someone had told me that the future of political situations was to be attributed to bulimic architects, I would nourish their never-ever hunger for lies to aversion. Only then can the truth become the mortar of such unassuming worded castles. After all civilizations are not known for the monuments that they built but the ones that they destroy. Now the need to indulge in madness forgoing all methods but the need to demolish the castles of perpetual formalities.  
	.         Must we all lament the escaped routines; aborted out of their prolonged misery. No, I could not protrude at your perceived purposes as if they were mine to dispose but have adopted formality out of necessity. Accusations to being oblivious to formalities accentuate the desire to overstay my welcome.  GANGRENAT E SHPIRTIT . I have become the child of formality born out of a sublime cause; the underlying existence of potential manhood and reassurance of self purpose What becomes of those truths that only excuse the lie? We justify them as another brick in the wall. Me mire mos ngaterrohemi me perfundime qelbanikesh. Nje te shtyre dhe BELDUUUUM. E kaluam lumin dhe kesaj here. 


                  Hey Pinkie are you thinking what I am thinking, no Brain, what you thinking? Shall we raise a toast to vulgar mind fucking.  Now I must go iron my eyelashes.

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## katana

Pinky, Are You Pondering What I'm Pondering?


I think so Brain, but then I'd have to know what pondering is, wouldn't I?

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## ChuChu

> _Postuar më parë nga qyfyri_ 
> *Now you are set to receive the meat of this story, and I would be sad to tell you a simple truth so true to form here is the glorious detail that underlines the moral of the story:  They knew men-mice these two, and their wager was nothing but an attempt to win cheese-rights distribution over the other.  Honesty is what the old human used to call transaction, dont be surprisedits true.  I have sold you the truth just now, I expect payment in kind.
> *



Whoever said there's only one moral to every story? You seem to have fallen through the cracks of the one of the oldest tricks in the world: the idea that there's only one moral to each story. Two people are given an apple with a worm in it. One says the apple satisfies his needs for fruits and proteins, whereas the other says the apple belongs in the Smithsonian. Moral 1 of the story is that the apple belongs to the worm as much as the worm belongs to the apple. Moral 2 is that people see what they want to see. Moral 3 is that apples, just like people can have worms living in them. Moral 4 is that a rotten apple may or may not contaminate the whole barrel. Moral 5 is that in any given day you are bound to find something that has 5 or more morals. Moral 6 is that moral 5 is not necessarily true. 

After careful examination I have found your truth to be flawed and full of cracks. For more explanation refer to moral 6. 

:)

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## Sokoli

- So, how do you like my life?
- It's just a life.

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## qyfyri

Coarse as it can ever be, bland, spewed out as if a product of overswollen glands, cacophonic and determinable only by a whiff of lunacy!  Alterations upon the main theme are to be presented with all the necessary honours but noone remembers to warm the food so that the guests are not fed chunks of what was previously a deliciously prepared dinner.  The point was never to perpetrate the tintillating corners of my honesty, neither was it to comprehend the end of honesty in Dodos scribbles (this, by the way, was never an issue since the fu*cker never intended to be pristine).  The issue is that there is too much cheese lying around no???  Too much.

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## liliella

I supposed cheese got better with age but mine, well just rotten!

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## kulla

ah, but I thought that was the point: ergo (or however one might say it to look less cheesier-should I open other brackets?) who cares about the cheese. it's just cheese.

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## Henri

I don't know how it came so far, but by the end of it, there were at least two new predators that were added to my nocturnal routine. Although, by this time I had already started to wonder whether the number had indeed increased, or if these two were the same ones and at times would appear as two big fat rats, while at others would dress up like bulldogs with white foamy liquid dripping off their puss-poached lips. To be perfectly honest, the rats came with a little greyish moving popple, which they called "dear child", but that might have not been a real one. It might have been their desire to have a child that had created the popple, and somehow they managed to convince my perception to accept it as such. And these beasts would never approach me the same way, no. The rats would fanatically only deal with my fingers and nails, biting them to the point where whatever I had perceived as pain until then, would gladly qualify as an orgasm. The bulldogs would aim at my ass, with an envy that made me think they were probably asian. It pains me to think how I had unfairly  disregarded the ability of coupled animals to coordinate and built strategies beyond any human comprehension. They had really put some thought into how to take me down, these animals. Somehow, "united we stand" was not a man-made energy-booster only, but had made its way through the fourceps as well. The Hyaenas' favorite trick was surrounding me in a way that my only choice was walking backwards, until my feet would feel the void of soil beneath me and suddenly catch myself falling into this whirpool created by the battle of the riverflow with the tide of the ocean it was spouting towards.  I never knew how they could all find my whereabouts, not until tonight.
Tonight there were two weasels. The She-weasel stood right in front of me, on her feet, paws clenched right below her chin, and I looked around the boxing ring and flattering as it might sound, for my fans if any. I saw her chubby male instead, chewing a sprout of some sort, staring at some void right above my head, seemingly oblivious to my very presence. It had taken me one too many lost battles to realize that running away from it would only end up in me choking in a pool of blood and guts, my own blood and guts lying around like left overs of a fiesta macabre. She went straight for my face, claws  right below her chin, and with a lightening-like stroke went for my eyes. 
My eyes! Before they rolled down my cheeks, they caught a glimpse of the tree above my head. There were two vague yellow lights on one of the branches, close enough not to be mistaken for a coupled star. An owl stood right above my head, feathers greyish and awfully long, creating a baby-soft beard that released a silver blue shining, similar to that of the faceless sky above me. The void above my head! And it dawned on me like a last redemption. The beasts were after me, had been after my flesh and spleen since the owl had mindlessly devoted his nights to my being. The owl, somehow during one of those moments where sky falls on earth and wraps it around in a borderless abyss, had broken the bestial rules of human and animal interaction...
My eyes touched the ground and got one last glimpse of my bleeding sockets. My reality was slowly melting the shapes of my repetitive dream. Their sunsets and moonrises swiped each other at the exact time, eclipses the same. The owl stared at the first ray of sun, yawning lazily with eyes half-closed.

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