Start to a Sequel to a Book I Have not Written Yet.

I found creativity right where I left it last time; after just two hours in the psychiatric ward, I was going sane again. A tremendous amount of weight was suddenly lifted from my shoulders, as I biked home, laughing and singing with every bump on the road, beaming with joy and hardly being able to wait writing down all the silly goofball poems suddenly popping up inside my head, one after one, in a long, consecutive stream of thoughts.

The machinery of the Underwood echoes around the room, loud enough to be noticed, but not loud enough to disrupt the music. The room is filled with smoke and the bottle of Tullamore is probably more empty than it's full. I don't care enough to look. I'm writing again and that's all that matters to me.
It takes a few pages 'fore I realize, during a laughing fit, that the mood-changing UV lights inside her room at the ward probably worked - and perhaps even better than they should. It was only twenty-two on the clock; I hit the town.

The down-tempo environments of both the ward and my tent were replaced with a socially busting bar. Nevertheless, I was overflowing with joy when I jumped down the staircase, grabbed a beer and crash-landed into the couch, pushing away some poor lassie sitting beside an aquintance.
"Seen Des yet?", I asked him, trying to compensate for the loud music but completely misjudging the volume, instead ending up with something sounding more like a screamed threat.
"Nae, ain't seen'er in here for the last few days at least", the bloke says.
"'Course not in here, you blasted cunt, she's in the fuck'n mental ward". I don't stick around long enough to haer if he has anything to say; if it isn't about her or music or poetry, it isn't fucking interesting enough for me in this state of mental.

I desperately try to look through the crowds of people, trying to find someone who's actually worth talking to. I can feel a decent rant coming up. One of those long, long ones, about everything and nothing. I'm feeling extreme; I don't know if I'm about to scream with joy, pain, pleasure, hate, angst or just because I'm going primal. I could speak for hours to everybody and nobody, and I see no reason not to.
"I see a  barroom full of deadbeat wannabe poets who probably only write sad rhymes about being punk and having problems with their parents or some shit like that, trying to score a shallow relationship with whatever girl they fell in love with this hour-day-week-month-forever-whatever. Then they will lose whatever fucking flavour they had before they actually got in a relationship, then get dumped, depressed, listen to some fucking Joy Division, think they can be just as poetic as Ian Curtis and then start all over again in a vicious fucking cycle of what they pretend is love.
And then there's all of the guitarists, who come in a good handfull of variants: either they're only good enough to play Wonderwall or whatever else just about any girl can sing along with while sitting around a campfire, or they exclusively play edgy metal in some sort of weird, bizarre fetishistic attempt to be a rebel, which often fails miserably as their parents simply give even less of a fuck about these ironic failures than I do.

There's also the ones who can play well enough to not be annoying, but only if they practice for such a long time that whatever song they learn is actually completely dull and out-of-the-times whenever they're ready to perform it.
And there's the indie fucks, who stop playing their obscure and originality-isn't-dead music by the time anyone actually get a copy of their EP, aside from those ten fucking casettes they threw out at somebody the last time there was a decent show down at Poetry House.

Then again, this actually goes for all the pretendous indie bands which pop up each and every day, all around me and us and everything I love and everything I hate and everything I am and everything I was and everything I will be.
I absolutely loathe all of these guys. Every single one of thse guys, who believe I'm going to turn the radio on tommorow in an attempt to hear whatever shit they finally got around to recording yesterday."

I take a deep breath, look at all the bewildered, wondrous, interested and shocked faces that fill this side of the room. Some are eager for more; some can hardly believe that I hate this. Most of the people from both groups are those plebes I'm complaining about. Those who're in it for anything else than just writing some fucking poetry or making some music. Those who consider them a part of this scene. I'm not a part of this scene; I created this scene. Or rather, this scene created itself, around me, around those who were around me, and then it expanded when even more people joined, around those who originally created the scene. Back in the day, Poetry House was just a bunch of teenagers who did a fuckton of drugs, wrote poems, recited poems, thought they were cool because they read Kerouac and what the fuck those people ever came to idealize about our existence. My existence.

I snap out of my thoughts. People are murmuring, but most eyes are still on me. I must've been out for a minute or two. Complete lost inside, wandering around my mind. I spot Dan walking towards us. Didn't think any of the original guys actually came in here any longer; and as expected, we're nothing now. We're everything these guys want to be, except we're not. But we used to be, at least. Nobody knows us anymore. That's about to change.

I down some girls whiskey and flip her the bird, hastly making my way towards Dan, pushing way more people than I needed to. "Hey man, nice mou-" is everything he has the time to say, before I'm pulling him towards the bar. He's Goddamn right - it is a nice moustache. I feel like Francis Begbie, and I couldn't feel any better.
I realize that none of this matters to any of these sods, and it matter even less to me. Nevertheless, I jump on top of the bar, pulling a hesistant Dan with me. He was always the shy kid; that only makes this even more fun.