I just finished writing this very short 'gothic fragment'. It's the dream I was having just before I was woke up this morning. I don't know what happens next.... Strange dreams, guess it was something I ate....
(`.GORGE: A Fragment.`)
I have gorged myself on the world--as he put it--Ive stood over her corpse, bleed her dry, picked clean her bones and sucked-out every last ounce of her marrow.
It was chilling enough, I say Smith, to hear him talk like that, but only so because I feared he was in one of his depressions or whatnot, and was contemplating doing himself in. But it was what he said next that first gave me the inkling that he had finally flipped his lid:
I have consumed all the world has to offer, he said, there is nothing left, and yet still I hunger! I say I, but I dont think it is I--this hunger has a life of its own--its like some worm inside me and it incessantly demands more!
Body and soul, huh? I had said somewhat distractedly and in reply he had muttered:
It took my soul long ago, and this body does make such a meagre meal.
Now you know me Smith--Ive never been one to hold much belief in mysticism and whatnot, but at that instant every hair on my body stood on end, and I will now never again doubt that man must have some sort of . . . sixth-sense. Out in the kitchen, I could hear the hissing and spitting of the frying pan, yet I could not--I dared not--bring it to Jeffersons attention. He sat and said nothing more, nor did I. For how long we both sat there I do not know--it surly cant have been for longer than a minute, and yet it felt like an hour. My legs felt like stone, and they nearly failed me when I finally managed to stand. I kept trying to get a grip, to bring some sort of rationally to the situation, but this inexplicable. . . dread--I can think of no better word for it--gnawed at me and hinted--nay, swore--that something was. . . wrong.
I do not remember a single step of my passage to the kitchen; my next recollection is of being in there, and of approaching the stove in something of a dazed state. The pan hissed and spat like a nest of cornered and defensive vipers warning me not to come near, but I did, and as I stood over it, my mind, in defence attempted to reason that I had not awoken this morning, and that I was still in my bed, in the throes of one of the virulent nightmares that my medication sometimes inflicts. I was unable to maintain the deception for long, and when its shield had finally lowered, I remember stumbling back and hitting the back of my head on the wall. After that everything becomes something of a blur....
(`.FIN.`)
~~~~ How to Navigate My Journal ~~~~[
(`.GORGE: A Fragment.`)
I have gorged myself on the world--as he put it--Ive stood over her corpse, bleed her dry, picked clean her bones and sucked-out every last ounce of her marrow.
It was chilling enough, I say Smith, to hear him talk like that, but only so because I feared he was in one of his depressions or whatnot, and was contemplating doing himself in. But it was what he said next that first gave me the inkling that he had finally flipped his lid:
I have consumed all the world has to offer, he said, there is nothing left, and yet still I hunger! I say I, but I dont think it is I--this hunger has a life of its own--its like some worm inside me and it incessantly demands more!
Body and soul, huh? I had said somewhat distractedly and in reply he had muttered:
It took my soul long ago, and this body does make such a meagre meal.
Now you know me Smith--Ive never been one to hold much belief in mysticism and whatnot, but at that instant every hair on my body stood on end, and I will now never again doubt that man must have some sort of . . . sixth-sense. Out in the kitchen, I could hear the hissing and spitting of the frying pan, yet I could not--I dared not--bring it to Jeffersons attention. He sat and said nothing more, nor did I. For how long we both sat there I do not know--it surly cant have been for longer than a minute, and yet it felt like an hour. My legs felt like stone, and they nearly failed me when I finally managed to stand. I kept trying to get a grip, to bring some sort of rationally to the situation, but this inexplicable. . . dread--I can think of no better word for it--gnawed at me and hinted--nay, swore--that something was. . . wrong.
I do not remember a single step of my passage to the kitchen; my next recollection is of being in there, and of approaching the stove in something of a dazed state. The pan hissed and spat like a nest of cornered and defensive vipers warning me not to come near, but I did, and as I stood over it, my mind, in defence attempted to reason that I had not awoken this morning, and that I was still in my bed, in the throes of one of the virulent nightmares that my medication sometimes inflicts. I was unable to maintain the deception for long, and when its shield had finally lowered, I remember stumbling back and hitting the back of my head on the wall. After that everything becomes something of a blur....
(`.FIN.`)
~~~~ How to Navigate My Journal ~~~~[