Berlyle sent me on a whirlwind trip the other day
actually it was quite a long time ago
I don't remember much about it
Only the next day, one of the coldest mornings of the year, I was dropped off at Stonebridge's house looking like "I'd just gotten kicked in the face" and entered, where I was greeted by his mother. She told me he was out on official business so I proceeded to attempt a conversation with her, which I'm pretty sure didn't go well and ended when I mumbled something oblique and tripped out her door. But I didn't want to go home, so I walked around the University for a while. I entered a large building, went to a fountain and drank some water, then to a toilet which demanded a refund. It was only water, there was nothing in my stomach. "Good," I thought. "At least I'm clean." Such was the nature of my vacancy. I pondered on this for a while, then wandered my surroundings. I found a vending machine, and fumbled the contents of my pockets. Don't remember what was in them. Sometimes I pick things up just to carry them with me. I had picked up some money somewhere, so I bought some strawberry-banana yogurt which i ate very slowly. I got to the bottom and was appalled by the still-unmixed fruit section which gave the yogurt its name. How could I forget such a thing? All this agonizing effort to give my body sustenance after gorging on nothing but poison for 24 straight. Then I remembered my taste buds hardly worked anyways, so I might as well be eating rat pellets. I got a small bit of water to help settle these thoughts, then layed down to prevent it from suffering the Wrath of the Porcelain Shrine. The rest of my recuperating time was spent in a miscellaneousness of voyeurism and totally inane inspiration. My eyes lolled around, bored with the stillness the rest of my body had adopted. That stillness: contempt for my actions, orders to disregard sensation in sympathy of my body's shocked condition. Occasionally an unfortunate would stroll upon my lurking place and meet my disconnected eyes, but all left quickly and none said a word. My mind was loath to reflect and I felt like a magnet had been attached to the base of my skull. For a time what my mind unfolded coiled right back in when I let go. It was a comforting existence, like being borne secure onto a world whose gravity encouraged no resistance. Flourescence beamed my pallid, sunken face until I was able to stand up again. I wandered by a dark chalkboard and a slow inspiration beheld me. Feeling in my pockets I grabbed a piece of paper from the night before and transferred its contents into chalk, scrawling in uneasy letters:
"Well what have you in words that would inspire? Will you creep intrepidly down that path and yet never make a left or right of it? I heard somewhere: 'We want your memory. We want that life-essence preserved in the etched runes of timeless history.' This was not directed at me. I wondered if it was directed at anyone at all. It seemed only a trick to me. Would the fates truly have me, it, those within earshot, pitched on their alter? Would they embroider me? Or do they just laugh at that sad struggle, the fluctuations within?"
I sighed, too detached to join the fates in their laughter. Clearly this wasn't what had been expected. The lines were too jagged and the tones too harsh, the inescapable meaninglessness of it all proved too much for my tenderized condition. I picked up the eraser, but it came to me that as this was the only physical evidence of my escapade, it was better left to the janitor to clean up. So I trudged back home, the cold wind whispering its sharp secrets in my exposed ears.
actually it was quite a long time ago
I don't remember much about it
Only the next day, one of the coldest mornings of the year, I was dropped off at Stonebridge's house looking like "I'd just gotten kicked in the face" and entered, where I was greeted by his mother. She told me he was out on official business so I proceeded to attempt a conversation with her, which I'm pretty sure didn't go well and ended when I mumbled something oblique and tripped out her door. But I didn't want to go home, so I walked around the University for a while. I entered a large building, went to a fountain and drank some water, then to a toilet which demanded a refund. It was only water, there was nothing in my stomach. "Good," I thought. "At least I'm clean." Such was the nature of my vacancy. I pondered on this for a while, then wandered my surroundings. I found a vending machine, and fumbled the contents of my pockets. Don't remember what was in them. Sometimes I pick things up just to carry them with me. I had picked up some money somewhere, so I bought some strawberry-banana yogurt which i ate very slowly. I got to the bottom and was appalled by the still-unmixed fruit section which gave the yogurt its name. How could I forget such a thing? All this agonizing effort to give my body sustenance after gorging on nothing but poison for 24 straight. Then I remembered my taste buds hardly worked anyways, so I might as well be eating rat pellets. I got a small bit of water to help settle these thoughts, then layed down to prevent it from suffering the Wrath of the Porcelain Shrine. The rest of my recuperating time was spent in a miscellaneousness of voyeurism and totally inane inspiration. My eyes lolled around, bored with the stillness the rest of my body had adopted. That stillness: contempt for my actions, orders to disregard sensation in sympathy of my body's shocked condition. Occasionally an unfortunate would stroll upon my lurking place and meet my disconnected eyes, but all left quickly and none said a word. My mind was loath to reflect and I felt like a magnet had been attached to the base of my skull. For a time what my mind unfolded coiled right back in when I let go. It was a comforting existence, like being borne secure onto a world whose gravity encouraged no resistance. Flourescence beamed my pallid, sunken face until I was able to stand up again. I wandered by a dark chalkboard and a slow inspiration beheld me. Feeling in my pockets I grabbed a piece of paper from the night before and transferred its contents into chalk, scrawling in uneasy letters:
"Well what have you in words that would inspire? Will you creep intrepidly down that path and yet never make a left or right of it? I heard somewhere: 'We want your memory. We want that life-essence preserved in the etched runes of timeless history.' This was not directed at me. I wondered if it was directed at anyone at all. It seemed only a trick to me. Would the fates truly have me, it, those within earshot, pitched on their alter? Would they embroider me? Or do they just laugh at that sad struggle, the fluctuations within?"
I sighed, too detached to join the fates in their laughter. Clearly this wasn't what had been expected. The lines were too jagged and the tones too harsh, the inescapable meaninglessness of it all proved too much for my tenderized condition. I picked up the eraser, but it came to me that as this was the only physical evidence of my escapade, it was better left to the janitor to clean up. So I trudged back home, the cold wind whispering its sharp secrets in my exposed ears.