I stand at the edge of the concrete lagoon. I smell the chlorine through my ebony jackal's mask. Bound together at ragged seams with the industrial stitching of dogged determination. Eyes of steel are cold-fusion stars in inky black wells. I stare remorselessly across the dimly-starlit back yard. I wear a sharp suit, pressed from routine. Hands behind my back, clasped loosely in patience. I stand uncommonly still. My grey vest is flecked with a faint spray of blood.
Who can say if it is mine, or not, and why?
It's the best thing for everyone, really, if it's left unknown.
Across the faintly tremoring tension of the midnight-azure pool, she sits. Her throne a privileged position, flanked by hazy torches of social expectation. They sputter and spit sparks of honesty, cloaking her in the dancing shadows of barely restrained madness.
Her mask is the pristine porcelain of a sheep. Curled coat of ivory glossy with indulgence. Unbrushed and seeded with illusions of desire. Barely held together with the tape of ambivalence. Her ballroom gown of the heaviest brocade. The weightiest of lace. Wrinkled and stained. She smells faintly of chloroform.
She vibrates with the water, in short, violent ripples. Music that only we can hear tugging at our heartstrings.
Our clothesstrings.
Our soulstrings.
They vibrate between one us like a disturbed spiderweb. Flashing like jagged needles, back and forth. Flechettes of moonlight spun between us.
A game of three dimensional ping-pong, with no winner, and our battered bodies as paddles. Played out in agonizing slowness over hours, days, weeks, months.
10:32 p.m. - 2014-05-19
Recent entries:
Tossi Propter - 2018-07-02
Summerscorch - 2018-07-02
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Elliptical - 2018-06-25
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