It's another year.
It's another month.
It's another week, day, hour, minute, and now you're washing up, again, and you're still chain-smoking cigarettes and eating bad.
This time it's 12:42 AM and you think you may have made a deal with Satan, but you aren't sure.
Satan's surprisingly short and he's in the basement of a place that's owned by the same guy who tattooed the rabbit on you.
Satan gives you something you want in exchange for something he wants, and now it's 12:58 AM and you're sparking up yet another cigarette, sheltering the flame with your hand, fingers closed together tight, cupping, staring blankly into the great void of existence as the snow flutters down around you and clings to your shaggy, mousy brown hair, your gray eyes the eternal-away of the space cadet.
The thing is you think you may have seen something out there.
Your trailer's at your back. The lights are all on and the door is open.
The Pacer is parked and the windows are covered in a light dust: The snow.
You hold your cigarette between your index and middle fingers and your shoulders are hunched as you bend and straighten your legs and tell yourself it's time to go inside and get warm, the collar of your brown jacket tugged up around your jaw.
You're standing at the edge of some great and untamed wilderness.
Under the fog, your wristwatch reads 1:00 AM.
L'appel du Vide
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Courtney
- Registered User
- Posts: 55
- Joined: 08 May 2014, 09:36
Re: L'appel du Vide
You decide to take in another art show somewhere in the city limits.
It's mostly desaturated portraits of people crying and the photographer's name is Olivia.
You keep thinking of the word 'bacon' any time you hear her name get whispered around. On TV, there's a pig in a dress with a weird-shaped head and you figure the reason you think the word 'bacon' when you hear her name is because of that pig. Your shirt isn't ironed, but it hasn't been for some five or six years. Maybe it has something to do with your overbearing depression. Ironing shirts seems like a waste of time. Everything does.
You're out of place: But you always have been. So, it's not news. And for you, it's no big deal.
It may even be a good thing, because you're holding a pretty fancy glass of wine and your hair's shaggy and messy and nobody says, 'Hello,' and nobody tries to rub shoulders with you. In fact, for as long as you stand in front of most any portrait, they detour around you like somebody's put up actual 'detour' signs for road work or a car crash (you're a car crash).
You get stuck in front of Self Portrait Number Nine.
The thing is that they're all 'Self Portraits' and it's probably supposed to be some thing about the interconnectedness of humanity and how we're all people and all that, but still: It's mostly pictures of people crying.
The person crying in Self Portrait Number Nine has black skin and dark, glassy eyes that shine. She has dust on her face and in her practically-shaved-bald hair and big, medallion earrings and cloth around her throat and her shoulders squared proudly against some indignity you'll never be able to name but could guess at. The trails on her face shine, too, like rivers of light. The liquid must have caught the flash.
As you put a cigarette in your mouth and start to light it (you're pretty absent-minded) a person taps you (she's wearing a black cocktail dress; you're wearing blue jeans, tan hemp loafers, your wrinkled button-down shirt, and your jacket). She says, 'Excuse me, sir, but you can't smoke in here,' and you carefully take the cigarette out of your mouth and stow it behind your ear while you go back to staring.
You wonder if anybody will ever buy one of these pictures to put on their wall.
You wonder what kind of unpleasant person would do that.
You wonder how much money you have in the bank and then you go to an ATM.
Number Nine is wrapped in dark brown paper and tied off with a piece of twine and Olivia, at the end of the night, now has three thousand dollars she didn't have before.
When you take Number Nine into the trailer, you stow her behind your bed. You don't unwrap her.
You leave her darkness trapped in darkness.
It's mostly desaturated portraits of people crying and the photographer's name is Olivia.
You keep thinking of the word 'bacon' any time you hear her name get whispered around. On TV, there's a pig in a dress with a weird-shaped head and you figure the reason you think the word 'bacon' when you hear her name is because of that pig. Your shirt isn't ironed, but it hasn't been for some five or six years. Maybe it has something to do with your overbearing depression. Ironing shirts seems like a waste of time. Everything does.
You're out of place: But you always have been. So, it's not news. And for you, it's no big deal.
It may even be a good thing, because you're holding a pretty fancy glass of wine and your hair's shaggy and messy and nobody says, 'Hello,' and nobody tries to rub shoulders with you. In fact, for as long as you stand in front of most any portrait, they detour around you like somebody's put up actual 'detour' signs for road work or a car crash (you're a car crash).
You get stuck in front of Self Portrait Number Nine.
The thing is that they're all 'Self Portraits' and it's probably supposed to be some thing about the interconnectedness of humanity and how we're all people and all that, but still: It's mostly pictures of people crying.
The person crying in Self Portrait Number Nine has black skin and dark, glassy eyes that shine. She has dust on her face and in her practically-shaved-bald hair and big, medallion earrings and cloth around her throat and her shoulders squared proudly against some indignity you'll never be able to name but could guess at. The trails on her face shine, too, like rivers of light. The liquid must have caught the flash.
As you put a cigarette in your mouth and start to light it (you're pretty absent-minded) a person taps you (she's wearing a black cocktail dress; you're wearing blue jeans, tan hemp loafers, your wrinkled button-down shirt, and your jacket). She says, 'Excuse me, sir, but you can't smoke in here,' and you carefully take the cigarette out of your mouth and stow it behind your ear while you go back to staring.
You wonder if anybody will ever buy one of these pictures to put on their wall.
You wonder what kind of unpleasant person would do that.
You wonder how much money you have in the bank and then you go to an ATM.
- - - - -
You and Self Portrait Number Nine arrive in your Pacer at your trailer. Number Nine is wrapped in dark brown paper and tied off with a piece of twine and Olivia, at the end of the night, now has three thousand dollars she didn't have before.
When you take Number Nine into the trailer, you stow her behind your bed. You don't unwrap her.
You leave her darkness trapped in darkness.
human