Obsession. What the hell might it all boil down to, anyway?
An over-priced aftershave, yes. A fella throwing stones at a lady's window a few years ago for to recite lyrics at five o'clock in the morning, yes. Nights spent lost in the tiny bump on a muse's thigh, owing to a tumble a many moons past, yes. Eyes alive with terror and also giddy lust every time a lass walks past and takes the time for to smile in the right direction, yes.
Obsession. The Duke knows a thing or two about it all, is the truth of the facts of the case.
Seventy-nine sonnets a night for the object of one's sticky notions, yes. Entire narratives, an epic saga spread cross forty-two volumes, a sci-fi opus concerning a colony of elves living in Connor Oberst's fringe, yes. A re-write of Paradise Lost concerning the intricacies of Pete Doherty's delightful hat, yes.
Obsession. A ballad about a tennis ball signed by Her sweet hand.
(And what of Self-Obsession? A burning desire for to catalogue in great detail every beat of one's blood-pump, irregular or otherwise, every hand that gets said blood-pump high on notions of beating along to a song she might wanna hear. Every thought thunk in anger or jest, documented, and the lines blurred. Was he hurtin', was he jokin', does it matter?
No, self-obsession has nothing to do with this article, which, rather, lends its paragraphs to the obsession one might hold for an external entity; i.e., a lass with a savage smile, or with long black hair save for a couple strands of burning red, or for the recorded works of Babyshambles and so on and so forth.)
Fuck my eyes, though, there ain't no need to worry about a damn thing that ain't got anything to do with the following;
What you need to realize, see, is that this all relates to a French picture by the name of He Loves Me, He Loves Me Not, or, indeed, À la folie... pas du tout, in which Laetitia Colombani explores the notion of Obsession with the assistance of Audrey Tautou and her fantastic smile, eyes and so on.
Stood outside a DVD emporium not so long ago, Sir Fleming, head of Mondo Guerrilla Marketing, he approaches The Duke, the infectious grin of the damned on his face, a DVD clutched in trembling hand.
Article comments
1 - Aaman
I think I fathomed c'est un film that I must watch, tout suite.
Loved the paragraph,
2 - Aaron, Duke De Mondo
thanks Aaman! I'm sure you'll enjoy this number immensely, and you'll understand why i was so scant with regards plot details.
3 - Aaron, Duke De Mondo
ooh, also, i hope the "opinion" header is alright. editors, feel free to change to "review" if you like, but i thought something along the lines of this was closer to "opinion".
4 - Bryan McKay
I think your posts deserve a category all to themselves, Duke.
(That's a compliment, by the way, whether it seemed like one or not!)
5 - Aaron, Duke De Mondo
well thank you Bryan, i will accept it as such! and then try to conquor this mattress anew... it will hold my sleepin form should i be forced to knock myself out with a hardback copy of Justine in order to accomplish as much!
6 - Aaron, Duke De Mondo
oh, and if anyone was beside themselves with tension regarding the last comment, the truth of it all is that i slept soundly soon after, and needed nothing more than a fine sleep-enhancer and the latest nick hornby on audio book. hurrah!