invierno perfecto

I woke up to the sound of the storm (vuuu VUUU) at 5am (2 hours ago) and the sound is getting wilder as hours go by (VUVUVUVUUUUU)... I love it as I'm looking down to numerous red & green roofs with white smoke coming out of their chimneys, and the foamy fog, unable to hide the colored lights on top of the hill across. I wouldn't be surprised to see Santa Claus riding on the small piece of mad sea next to the hill. I can't wait to put the mix CD on that a taxi driver gave me today just because I liked it (the content ranges from James Newton Howard to Sepultura), but it's too early for any sound besides the sound of the storm inside the house...

Anyway, I peeked into my favorite caricature weekly a minute ago and came by a brilliant sarcastic article that I really wanted to share with you but I couldn't find an online version to post here. It's the perfect anatomy of a metaphor & melancholy lover elaborating on how the grief mafia abuses ellipses (meaning three consecutive dots). It's in the first patch of Uykusuz archive which you can find in any bookstore in Turkey: Fırat Budacı "Bak açsan bir bir yıkılıyor radyolar" 2007/08. He is one of the best critiques I've known. Crítica perfecto... ... ... ...

Anyway, it's 8am, and the wind is advancing to a whole new level outside. It's time I put on my wool armor & plastic shields, and go out to get soaked wet nonetheless.