Writer's Block 2 November 21, 2016 09:30
I've got writer's block, ladies and gentlemen. Srsly (seriously). I'm sat here alone, holed up in the Hotflush office in Berlin at ten o'clock at night, pulling a late one, with nothing but an old German cleaning lady for company. I don't know the German for, "fancy some rough as fuck, coked-up sex on my desk before you clean it, love?", so I'm stuck attempting another original dance music post on here in a mood, silently wondering why life has dragged me here.
Forty-nine consecutive weeks, I've been doing this. Sigh.
The small, wooden desk that Scuba issued instructions to be allocated to me in January sits besides a small, wooden-framed, single-glazed window that overlooks the old wall, and I'm distracted by gun shots above the heads of two lovers, kissing. The moon, now into its third quarter, is not as bright as it was last week, but I can see that they are holding one another tightly. Unbreakable, they squeeze and hide their faces, as if to shield one another from the truth that is their reality for what could be the precious, finite time they have together tonight. Actors in their own lives. Fierce protectors of the secrets they share. Fire-forged and enduring, as though nothing could fall.
The blithering idiots.
That reminds me of that Peter Bjorn And John song, Young Folks, off of their 2006 album, Writer's Block? Remember that song? I fucking loved it, and then I hated it because everyone played it to death and now I love it again because it's reminding me of when I was twenty-five.
Listen, it really is a corking pop song:
Everyone played that in 2006. Erol played it. Erol used to play it. And I definitely remember Erol playing it. What a fucking tune.
Right, as I've got writer's block, I'm not going to write a post today. Soz.