As if he has returned from a years-long quest, the medieval knight seems to be back. Yet he is no longer wearing a heavy armor set, carrying a throat-slitting sword, nor arriving on some biologically perfect stallion: he has humbly traded his signature gear for a Thrasher sweater, a pair of artificially ripped jeans and an eye-catching BMW. His Lady, the pinnacle of his private world, the absolute test of his chivalry, has become the owner of an 11-million-followers Instagram account, spending a dollar per like on plastic surgery. Where ever one looks someone with a perfect life is present. The rich and famous have returned to being an idealized version of themselves, so we, the commoners, aspire to be them even more. Celebrities have become knights, and in romances of secret affairs, public rivalry, and battles with drugs, depression and alcohol, they spread their names across the globe.
They fell in love in the vineyard,
In between empty barrels
and hanging sweets.
I should have acted,
But I can just remember.
Comfortably leaning back, he sat in a white plastic chair, with his feet resting in front of him on an equally white and plastic table, off which the sunlight glitteringly reflected. On its almost glowing surface stood only one cloudily condensed glass, still full of thin orange soda, which had to share its space with a red-white striped straw, some slowly melting, subsequently evaporating ice cubicles and loads of nonchalantly ascending bubbles. Although most of his body seemed worry and stress free, his hands passionately held the two hostage-like parts of an opened book, sandwiching the paper with every turning of a page. The skin on his forehead was similarly squeezed into several frowning wrinkles and almost unnoticeable, yet shadow shaping bumps.