May 2012
4 posts
we, the damned. the voyeur.
the voyeur.
He’s been sat there for hours. What is he doing? Same as always, nothing I imagine. I wonder what’s on the telly – ooh! He’s up! Wait, no, no, just a stretch. Maybe a yawn. I’d better take note: 22:04:57 – Sub. A leans backwards in chair. Pen leaves paper, no trace left behind. Leans back forward. Pen meets paper, no productivity achieved thus. I’ll place...
we, the damned. the writer.
the writer.
Time collapses. Linearity erodes, on the precipice where fact and fiction merge and parade under the banner of reality with a certain caprice. Here at this desk. I don’t know what time it is. Wednesday? Monday through Sunday trundle on, and destroy one another as an ouroborous. I think its the tail end of the week. Or perhaps the head. In this room, here at this desk, the bland...
life: lived.
Who is it then? Do we know? Ah, you’ve gone. Way back. Fiddling about with that box of yours.
Well then. Who is it then? Do we know? I shouldn’t’ve worn a jacket. The statue, I don’t know. The bust? The man or the woman, the man I’d imagine, he’s higher up. Woman as decora- the white sheets red, midnight warm. Too warm. Hm, some might say. Too warm. Hm. Window should be opened, but it’s left...
