The day reeks of burning celluloid in the squalid darkrooms of my mind.
An impulse struggles in embryo, and dies upon definition.
A notion of former beauty dries on my skin like an oil pastel. The canvas groans and breaks off in fistfuls of mid-morning bread. The hour trembles like a violin string.
Black and white happiness filters through the car window like music through a telephone cable. A one-way ticket to misery sits atop cassette cases and cigarette boxes, twice shy and twice empty.
A trip to the mall reveals my emptiness.
It was a noisy thought. The lethargic sun lounges about in a still and solipsistic sky. A long way away in a dream so much further than here and now is the idea of an idea, the mist of a mist, clutched in seashell memories the incense of lost operas playing Russian roulette and losing, losing, losing the draw. Down, down, down they go, oh no…
There is nothing more liberating than having your worst fears realized. It was a noisy thought. Death to it. Minutiae writ large bleeds by a warm and beautiful gunshot.
I walk into the embrace of throbbing company feeling hollow, like a sacred cow to the slaughter. The day is framed by these seconds of nonchalance, the four corners of a silver screen which can no longer hold in its own emptiness.
Oh, how the soliloquy of static sings.