Sleep
Dopesmoker

They ditch me for a collection, but at that point, I have to go through with it anyway. I take everything myself and to hell with it. I have three days before the plane, and my notorious airport cynophilia prevents me from taking risks. «Vabbuo', you’re only away for ten days, put it in a jar for when you return and easy».

Easy.


I've always been afraid of flying, very much so. Anxiety for every vibration, however small, apprehension for every little noise. I study the movements of the flight crew with paranoid attention to possibly detect signs of imminent disasters. I sweat stuck to the seat with a predisposition to the inevitable that is even worse than resignation.
Now I am a happy person, but back when I wasn’t happy at all, the doctor warned me to be careful because certain things slant.

Remembering his suggestion, in three days I devoured everything, especially the crumbs.

Ellipses in the story because ellipses in life.

I recovered from the crunchy situation of the previous evening with Bonduelle as a grand finale reserve. Finally, on Easter afternoon, I boarded the plane with eyes as red as the red tip of the Devil's manhood after the fourth self-pleasure session following the MOAB drop on Afghanistan.

I was in high spirits even at the airport, like the half-comedic character from Top Gun. Something never seen before, because usually, if someone says excuse me or hi and in half an hour I have to fly, I might respond with slaps and serious curses. But I was in a great mood and even winked at the stewardess because why not.
I hate children and even more so on the plane because we're about to die and they're blissfully unaware, or whining about random things like that man's mustache.
Yet I said «hi handsome» to a kid staring at me, and he smiled at me, and so did his cute mom.

I felt invincible, indestructible, and immortal for two reasons: a few seats away from me was Tullio De Piscopo; I spent the entire flight listening to Dopesmoker.
In the sense that Dopesmoker perfectly covered the flight’s duration, from just after the instructions for dying composedly, until landing. Clear skies, zero clouds.

About Dopesmoker, you've already heard everything there is to say and better than I could tell it, but maybe not this: pair it with sufficiently isolating headphones and fly from Bologna to Alghero.

Besides, when Al Cisneros begins his grunted mantra drop out of life with bong in hand you're already over the Ligurian mountains, and I swear, if it doesn't give you the precise idea of what it’s like to feel omnipotent, perhaps you don't have even a shred of self-love, young one.
The thing that makes me say exactly Dopesmoker and not another long, noisy, and exhausting thing, not the Swans or even maybe the Melvins, is that with Dopesmoker everything is continually falling. You hear that mass of sound that has a thousand drops and then holds. And every time it seems like it's about to fall completely, it comes back up with new drive and the usual consistency.
There you forget about the landing gear, turbulence, flaps, engine power loss, explosions, the cute stewardess, Tullio De Piscopo a few meters away, exquisite perfumes for 5 euros a liter.

If they played Dopesmoker loudly on the plane, no one would be afraid of flying anymore, or even of crawling on all fours.
A completely green plane flying over Corsica, which is enormous and has white peaks with villages that are unreachable specks from the outside world, in that sea fortress. With insurmountable ruggedness for the implications of human life.

It seems stupid to say, in fact it is, but flying over it with Sleep I understood the desert.