Today I helped a friend move. Well, helped is probably too strong a word. I moved some things. I drove around. It wasn't all that difficult and I got a free dinner at the end while becoming part of a communal storage shed. Which is nice, because I'm a fucking hoarder, always finding old things and keeping them for no real reason whatsoever. Today I ended up with a bunch of old tapes. I have tape copy of Guns-N-Roses' Appetite for Destruction which I will never listen to, but that isn't why I have it. I like the shape and feel of it. The compact density. The weight. I just dig it.
Anyhow, what you are looking at in this picture is, obviously, a sword. It was made about fifteen, eighteen years ago. My friends and I stole a bunch of tent poles and hammered them into the shape before then taking off to beat the shit out of each other with them. This sword belong to my friend, D, and is all the remains now. As you can see, he gave it a point, but he also sharpened the edge so it might cut his friends open and leave some disease from whatever dirty corner it had come from and returned to in the evenings. I always suspected that he never really cared for us.
It's notched and as ugly as all fuck with the dried red rust stains that come with that much time, but the shadow hides it. We were such violent little geeks, really.