Walks on to the empty set, looks about with vague interest; there is something to be looked for but never anything to be found. A melodramatic sigh issues forth with clove-scented smoke that curls seductively in the bright lights. Enhance the image of the serpent, of original sin and the absurdity of faith. The sound of a door being unlocked and unfeigned curiosity lights the face; two steps are taken forward and then movement is halted with a shake of head. The battle lies with-in the universe but reason lies no where. Pours a drink of cheap whiskey and generic cola, the red plastic cup is dirty from the night before. The curled fingers of one hand bar the two extended strike the partner; violent emotion lights the face, but soon the neutral boredom of trivial despair returns.
Life, begins, is inherently absurd.
The sound dies in oppressive silence. Another smoke-primed sigh. There is no satisfaction, merely destruction. A thought of the tarred lungs recalls of a dinner at a friends house: blackened shark and copious amounts of water, the b-52s on an old hi-fi, a dancing woman with a leg brace and a wine glass.
Suddenly all is sound, speakers spew their waves from every direction, all singing a different song of joy and heartbreak and strings with timpani. Standing unflinching in the midst, not deaf, not dead, not caring. Preoccupation is elsewhere. Preoccupation is here. Preoccupation stands beside with a hand on the shoulder, whispering secrets into the ear. Preoccupation is hollow and with a blow shatters. A child crawls from the wreckage, grows from babe to tot to adolescent, walks off to find its own life.
No sight, continues, can surprise the blind.
It is hackneyed and torn from a poster, but the double entendre briefly amuses, half a smile forms and whips itself. There is no true depression, merely the love of black and tears and masturbatory pity. Even in 2021 the brain is a mystery. Good times great oldies, what is borrowed becomes owned. Standing wears on the soul of the foot. Quickly turns, once, twice slower, shrugs shoulders and gives up. Legs fold, without grace but with confidence, something done before. Comforted in action, now dormant. What is learned is repeated is satisfaction in the modern society. Never hunts, never gathers, feels no tie to the Nature that some will say raises.
I have invented myself, there is no pride of creation.
Swiped slates. Lights are blue, rippling canvas. A flood, a new beginning, an imperfect God could not predict the shortfalls of man. Shakespeare was no original, but he had a good publicity rep. Flicks a butt, frowns and retrieves it; rolls it between the fingers and dismantles the cotton. Hands busy are happy, the nervous swinging has stopped. There is a dance of hands that dont know themselves, in and out of pockets, over clothes and free in the air, cut loose where would they end. Idle speculation. A finite universe gives a probability to all numbers. There is one and two, e and zero, i and pi; all else is myth. Buildings built on the science of phlogiston outlast einsteinian rockets.
Life, begins, is inherently absurd.
The sound dies in oppressive silence. Another smoke-primed sigh. There is no satisfaction, merely destruction. A thought of the tarred lungs recalls of a dinner at a friends house: blackened shark and copious amounts of water, the b-52s on an old hi-fi, a dancing woman with a leg brace and a wine glass.
Suddenly all is sound, speakers spew their waves from every direction, all singing a different song of joy and heartbreak and strings with timpani. Standing unflinching in the midst, not deaf, not dead, not caring. Preoccupation is elsewhere. Preoccupation is here. Preoccupation stands beside with a hand on the shoulder, whispering secrets into the ear. Preoccupation is hollow and with a blow shatters. A child crawls from the wreckage, grows from babe to tot to adolescent, walks off to find its own life.
No sight, continues, can surprise the blind.
It is hackneyed and torn from a poster, but the double entendre briefly amuses, half a smile forms and whips itself. There is no true depression, merely the love of black and tears and masturbatory pity. Even in 2021 the brain is a mystery. Good times great oldies, what is borrowed becomes owned. Standing wears on the soul of the foot. Quickly turns, once, twice slower, shrugs shoulders and gives up. Legs fold, without grace but with confidence, something done before. Comforted in action, now dormant. What is learned is repeated is satisfaction in the modern society. Never hunts, never gathers, feels no tie to the Nature that some will say raises.
I have invented myself, there is no pride of creation.
Swiped slates. Lights are blue, rippling canvas. A flood, a new beginning, an imperfect God could not predict the shortfalls of man. Shakespeare was no original, but he had a good publicity rep. Flicks a butt, frowns and retrieves it; rolls it between the fingers and dismantles the cotton. Hands busy are happy, the nervous swinging has stopped. There is a dance of hands that dont know themselves, in and out of pockets, over clothes and free in the air, cut loose where would they end. Idle speculation. A finite universe gives a probability to all numbers. There is one and two, e and zero, i and pi; all else is myth. Buildings built on the science of phlogiston outlast einsteinian rockets.
"blackened shark and copious amounts of water, the b-52s on an old hi-fi, a dancing woman with a leg brace and a wine glass."
I'll have to reread that. It's not the kind of story you read just once. Hope to hear more from you.