You’ve got only a limited time alive, so you’ve got to use your imagination. Otherwise, you’ll die of boredom, quick.
M. Gira

Life is too short not to fill it with real things.
Jeanette Winterson

The Realization of the Primal Brutality of Man

So, what can you do this autumn? Evening closes in fast already these days, the shadows on the streets turn blue quickly, then disappear. You realize that sometimes you’re listening to your own bones as they wait for the cold to creep into the days and slowly conquer them. And there is a special day.

The 4 of October has been the remembrance day of Saint Francis of Assisi for quite a long time. You know him for sure, the guy who wrote that strangely serene, yet beautiful hymn which you probably didn’t read, and who’s famous for preaching to the birds. That’s cute, isn’t it? You can visualize him instantly in faded sepia colors, as if he has just stepped out of a Zeffirelli flick, walking barefoot on the thick grass of a luscious park, stopping at a pomegranate tree to tell something really important, very poetic and easy to remember about God’s goodness (p.e. „Lookee here, God is good, capisci?”) to the nightingales and robins. There should even be a flamingo standing nearby, eavesdropping. Right? Fuck that.
Frances was a genuinely cool kid, so first he tried to help his fellow men and guide them. His original plot was to preach to his people and make them repent and then, you know, redemption, eternal life in God’s loving light and all that stuff. Only he realized that his people didn’t give a shit about any of those. On top of that, after graciously accepting his help they robbed him too, just to be on the safe side, and even would have killed him, if that was possible. So, when he admitted that his neighborhood was filled with dead men who were still walking and doing harm, he chose the nicer dead, and off he went to the cemetery, which at those times was more like an open-air person-rotting plot, not resembling at all to the very pleasingly landscaped parks which we know as cemeteries nowadays. There the dead were basically lying around and rotting silently, occasionally being chewed or bitten by this animal or that, but at least they did not kill each other any more. So there was this hippyesque kid immersed in conversation with these carcasses, and there were the crows too, nibbling on the eyes of the same carcasses. That’s how the legend started, anyway. You can take it for a fact.

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