Johannes Punkt’s Flaskpost

You may be required to show proof of id.

Tag: music


I turn on the radio, and clear some space for you. This is that song you like, which goes thump-thump-thump. The lyrics are immaterial. You’ve never heard the song in full, never all the way through the fadeout, where everything slows down. You’ve danced like mad to this song, you’ve danced your brains out on the floor to this. This is your jam. I can see you dancing to it now, if I imagine really hard. I clear some space in my room for you, roll up the carpet so your light steps can be heard against the wooden floor.

Decelerate Enough

There was a rhythm to it, if you decelerated yourself enough. One heartbeat every hour and the rain fell melodiously on the roof of my car. That was how I knew this was not natural rain, but something more sinister, or more divine. Maybe it shifted between day and night, but the rain never stopped. There was no point in distinction. An oak a hundred feet away had an aura made of rain and streetlight. I stepped out onto the asphalt, it took a thousand years. I walked toward the oak, toward the drumming, strumming, humming phosphorescence in the distance.

Harddrive Rust

When grandpa still existed, when there were any grandpas at all, he used to explain to me that there used to be more than one sun in the sky. He said there was harddrive rust in the universe and that all the stars had become similar and they had then become one. Concepts were disappearing, merging. There’s just one sphere now, and there are no grandpas, and soon there’ll be no memory of grandpas either. I think my hands used to have more fingers, but I don’t know what comes after ‘five’. The one sphere sings a solemn, lonely song.


Orwell and Julia’s relationship had an overture at a Christmas party two years before they actually, truly, met.

Orwell and Julia’s relationship was a classical opera in three parts. Their marriage was a slow movement, their wedding and divorce both lightning fast.

Orwell and Julia did not know they had met before the night they met again, something Orwell was embarrassed over and Julia was traumatized by. They had both been too intoxicated to remember exactly.

It was obvious, how it would go. The friend who introduced them to one another said they had chemistry. What they had was music.


This is a landmine, but it is unloaded for you. When you feel bad you should open it and you can tell that others feel like you. You can see the traces of their survival on the little bomb’s skin, and you can feel the texture of being so close to defeat, if you run your fingers along the edge, but be careful. The bad stuff will collect in it until it is brimming with it, and that is when you must walk away. Give the insidious little bomb away, because it can only hurt the one who loaded it.


I sat down at the piano with no plan in mind and sad things started pouring out of it. I tried to catch them, but I had to keep playing. The things fluttered and screeched like animals who know they are about to become extinct. My bookshelves vibrated like hesitant trigger fingers. And a song started to rise in my throat, like the sea, just as wordless. I wondered whether the sad things came from the piano or me, and then the song ended. Perched on my shoulder, one of the sad things tilted its head and stared at me.