Europa 3.6.2010: Prague

Tracing my bloodtrail back to the hostel. A night that is pleasantly forgettable. Leaning against some 17th century guesthouse, staring down the wet corridors, counting the dripping blood, drip, drip, red on black with a small current softening our thick fluid. Standing on the corner, feeling the bloodtrail scroll its way down my face, I thought about the feeling of being lost. It's not so unpleasant once you get past the harsh beginning. The feeling of roots, of bars, of containers is unbearable in the long run. Lost is the warmest form of terror.

Kafka had the joy of borning in the beginning of the 20th century. It was that time, the certain presence of spirit in Europe (also in Prague) that encouraged him to bloom in opposite to his tremendous constrains. It's no wonder these famous loners write as if in a state of trans. What else can you do when your whole existence boils down to a beam that nearly burns the paper (and its readers) away? Plan, make a sketch? You can only reach the limits of your mind and existence, and after this realization expand into beautiful language, forms, colours etc. But Kafka was in at least one sense lucky. In our time he wouldn't make it. The thing that kept Kafka from killing himself was a certain inner light consisting of belief in a purpose without purpose, a man who still walks in the garden of Eden, and the garden serves, man does not, the packt is broken. But whatever we don't say out loud, something inside us speaks the code. Some say the code of Kabbalah.

2010 A.D, Kafka wouldn't survive to his 16th birthday. He would propably stop eating as a little boy and stay that way until his untimely death. The portrait of a sad child starving without any need to. It's a smart move to stop eating in a world that serves only shit.

There are too much people here to even consider the possibility of a closer contact. They come and go, say a few words and are gone. I mostly go. Maybe that is the PATH: endless, revolving series of going away. The same theme varied by time, like watching 10 horror movies and trying to review them individually.

Thought about jumping off a bridge. A lot of bridges here. Beautiful settings. Charles Bridge is always filled with tourists. Read Camus's The Fall and you'll see why this is so appealing.

Youth culture has no humanity left. Even Prague is just an enormous butcher's shop. How nice it would have been to live eighty years ago when sexuality was shrouded in a vaporizing mist, when touches had more meaning than the act of one thing leads to another. Eroticism is so boring I get enough of it just by watching. Seeing is free, touching requires schooling, teachings of tactics I don't give a fuck about. I must be a whore to enter this game. So be it.

Counting the drips of blood. Too much passed through my mind, the barriers vaporize. Rusted by five days of drinking with less than six hours of sleep per night. Rusted by nonstop rain, spiced with nonstop smoking. I rush down the small corridors, trying to stop the bleeding with a subway ticket. I stuck it to my eyebrow, it worked there for a while. People said: ''There is some guy walking there with a subway ticket in his face.'' Apart from the red eye, I had also a lot on my mind.

Leaving on saturday for Wienna. From there to Slovenia, Venezia, Marseille and so on. Feels healing to be on the road again.

Went to Kafka museum. Surprisingly good. Recommend to all interested. Also Kafka T-shirts on sale for about 20 euros. Buy now, please.