Johannes Punkt’s Flaskpost

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Tag: damnatio memoriae

Gasoline, Lacquer, Matches

The smell of the old lacquer on the door was coming back, as the newer, whiter, paint was peeling off. The smell of gasoline and lacquer was every time he had come home through that door and hung his coat on the rack. All the different trenchcoats that he’d worn through the years, and changed maybe once per decade, flickered before her eyes. The new, red, colour of the house was every time he had fucked, raped, or made love to her. It was mostly good memories, she admitted to herself, but in some cases any memory is too much.

they will be wrong of course

you wake up in the absence of moonlight to a shocking realization related to the way you’re going to die soon, any day any year now. you know perfectly well that you’re going to die but there’s a bitter taste on your fat tongue and a six-legged chill crawling its way up your spine: there are people out there with ideas about who you are, who you really really are deep down underneath the personality and the skin and the bone. that and nothing else will be what is left of you: strangers’ hastily formed impressions of an insignificant person.


Chy-Gorat died and left nothing behind: no money, no words, not even a withered husk of skin or any bleached bones. His friends remembered the man against his wishes, and Issachi lost his tongue before he could hold his memorial speech.

Gorat started fading then, but they made him a statue. They repair it when it dries and crackles, and when it melts in the sun, and after it is struck by lightning.

And when every walleted picture blanked and every yearbook photo was burnt to ashes, Issachi reconstructed his friend from stray footage and distributed the new images everywhere.