So let me tell you something about today. Being as meek and hollow as the earth much like today, everything remained just as intact as if everything was full. The roamers, mindless husks with brightly colored eyes, wigs and lollipops in their front pockets. However, not all of them were as silent. Some screamed constantly down the halls but that was tolerable. Then they would do things like scratch the windows or constantly turn the lights on and off as if they were the revolutions of each day, sinking deeper into my seat every time. I would wonder, when looking through a small hole and seeing the bludgeoned sky, if I would be better off outside or if the noises wouldn’t be as present. 

“Hey,” a series of ratatat peeps echoed around my head, its sound perpetuating from a source like some sort of personal orbiting satellite. But that feels like everyone now.

“We’re all just one giant nut waiting to crack, you know what I’m saying? You just keep on cleaning, washing them dishes and we’ll all stay busy until we’re out,” Johnny, a scruffy looking man peeped following a second inhale after every pump of sweat, a small sailor tattoo encrested into his left arm, slowly buldging more protrusively. 

Open doors, swinging in propetual motion due to the spring winds and cries of summertime. The sounds would dig beneath my skin, sinking its claws like some woman I knew a while back, the cricking and its jibberish would continue through the night, making love to the honeydew blossoming with these bright, beautiful colors.
The air outside was no longer stale like the atmospheric haze of the long forgotten attic, migrating somewhere across the Mexican border, moving in with the sounds of Los Angelos or the smells of New York City.
The stars smothered me with their beauty.

Notice how long the day was.

It felt like laying on the beach, the warm sun in your face and that god awful whistle the wind makes from overseas somewhere.

There would be a crash near the ends of your toes, the currents claiming a smaller piece of you, little by little.

You remember when you found the clouds in the sky and counted the stars at night.

Tanned skin, brightly colored eyes.

It’s like every place you’ve been to, every sidewalk you’ve started your night on, every bar you’ve visited, every person you’ve fell in love with on the train but you can’t really remember what was said. It may have been just the image blotted out, noticing only the hair, make up sometimes, but it usually never really mattered.
Then you start thinking if you’ll ever see that person ever again, or if that sudden euphoria even existed for that matter. You would go back to that same place and think as hard as you can for that same image to appear nights on end. There wouldn’t be any sound, no voice, just hums, high pitches and smiles that torched the world.

Brilliantly behind him was the unbundling of the forward projectima from somewhere in the dark, among the scaffolding. Sure the movie was alright. Everyone enjoyed it, Angel definitely. He needed to go out to loosen up sometimes. He would take a glance over to Avaine occasionally, who sipped her bitter coffee and smoked her cigarette. He would turn back to me and say things like “Take a load of this bum sitting in front of us” or “When would we get out of here?” which he would pull very often. Joseph and Olivine sat somewhere in the matter, apart from the ashes and the smoke, we could see the tips of their hair from time to time, both timid and bashful from hiding.

The weirdest ones in the world, those two, with their constant triffles over food, welfare and their poor young bodies, but not anymore however, as they traveled immensely to the hidey cubs, a small passenger plane set to the Bermuda. The safeway wasn’t all that bad, either apart from the rickets of the port and starboard propellers with occasional jolts from colliding cold and warm wind. And the people, dressed in their penguin outfits, all dotesy with their occasional oolivant luminescence.

And who was the girl in particular, dear Avaine, doomed to wear her red dress for eternity, smoking herst cigarette in an undying appetite, each pitiful breath after the next. And then there was Olivine, whom cradled a sickly boy in her arms and watched the birds perch in the backyard from inside. What not of Angel, whom graced the room with his presence. He spoke into kind words and overwatched our folly gentleman as we descended. There was an overhead flash that upped a small dog in the corner, squeaking like some rubber duck, old and just as patchy in the skin. Poor thing.

The man, still half conscious, speaks to Olivine from time to time. And no matter how you write the story, Joseph will always love Olivine and they will never fall apart. It’s better that way.

Valerie, we’ll call her, a spectacularly young girl keeps her youth in the endless amounts of children’s books she has read. An odd fish, she has never finished anything in her life, not even her books, the philosophy of the matter not having a conclusive statement itself. She has always adored the imminent man who would be coaxed to her, and there always was one. She fell in love with someone everyday during her trips in and out of Montreal and she was in love with the fact that every day was a different person and there wouldn’t be a story to finish. However, no one came nearly as close today besides the fact of the man seated next to her, who we very well can identify as Franz.

Now, most girls nowadays (if not, certainly Valerie) would wait for a few minutes to be noticed, open her mirror from her fancy shmancy make-up kit to catch a glimpse of eye contact, nothing. She was continually shuffling around her legs in a figure eight cycle over the period of a few moments, stretch to the back of her seat, or maybe yawn a couple times, even a long drawn out sigh. At this point, she was desperate. A cough will get him to stop flipping his pages, stop looking down and notice. So baffled by the fact, Valerie had no other choice but to do something so drastic that no other girl in the entire history of the world has had the nerve to do.

I had someone whom would sing to me in the dark and I could hear her flick her eye lashes and feel her singers caress down my spine.

But oh man, how I fucking miss that now, these material interactions to be touched by someone else other than yourself.

France one day, hopefully, although I fear that it will be one day prove to not be what I had hoped it to. And then what, waiting for some damned date in the States, time ticking by. 

One day.

I’ve made damn sure I wouldn’t forget either, it’s in my hair. It’s in my clothes. 

It’s all over my walls.

There was nothing I could do to keep me asleep. Apart from the undying groan of the outside, there was this ringing in my head, this Athena I simply could not let out. It’s banging, tip tap, hammer swinging in the back of my head. I was missing something I could not quite tell. There was a mist between the trees. Something was not right.
It was a long walk now that I had time to think about it. A walk through a nightmare darkly. The crushing of gravel beneath my feet etched in grime along a path. It was a big city, too big to cover. And there was always that damn girl who turns the corner off in the distance. It wasn’t the hair as much as the smell that captivated me to chase. What gave way in front of me was a red raincoat left in place of a series of wrong turns, the honks from a series of small cars. And all I could hear were the marks of footsteps. There was a dive, her hushed breath beneath my chest. I wasn’t sure if she was looking at me or not. She was an angel in my arms who propelled me. Her scent lifted me, like baby powder and jasmine. Sometime after, a thud arose and the sounds of the earth came zooming back to me, with the car immediately zooming off into the sink.
She was a young girl, in fact, with a tendency to cross her arms in a conversation. 

I am afforded a soul’s right to breathe, a twinkle in a pair of eyes, an exchanging of hips.

Lips. Lips, lips, lips, lips.. Cracks in them, paved with clay, colored clay, whom opens with every lisp with her two front teeth. Her curves, like sin, much with her geometric qualities, a smooth limit of a size four dress, size four shoes. However, whose to look at her with a tan yellow sweater, who eases down her shoulders indefinitely.

And she would ramble on, dancing. Therapy, we’re here for therapy, I think. We are here for the most important fixations today. The tick-tock of a lonesome grandfather clock, huddled into the corner, behind a bookcase, peeking, throughout the door, a white one, with a crystallized view screen, a black wall, I couldn’t tell what. A man in a chair, grey in appearance. And this chair, this elegant stitch that ran up the spine grooved along my back. Ack, Doctor Ack, he said. It’s nice to meet your acquaintance. 

Alas, Doctor Ack, the significance of the rolling of a pivot between four blades suffixed to the ceiling astounded me, pushing molecules that tapped onto my hair and eyes like the gentle beams of sunlight outside, feeling. I could feel it for the first time today.

Yet the clouds surrounded about the mixture, the dragons’ lairs above the oceans, rough skies. We sat on a ship in the oceans, trading the currents for our former positions, bickering, the crew amongst us, wearing bright colored clothing and masks that covered our head most of the time, as so that the men and women appeared alike.

And below, the clouds would roll across the water. The sun would make things seem warmer than they really are on board, despite our multiple layers of clothing. We could sometimes board on land, meeting up at a distant tower above the clouds, so we would descend past the surface into the undercuts.

typewriterblues:

Letter by Allison Titus - From her book “Sum of Every Lost Ship” 

 I have a book for sale.      What do you want?  

writtenidentity:

I have travelled
to the dark side of the moon
only to use
the stars as my muse
and paint the night sky
in red

painting my stars
I said

but the sun creeps in
to the dark side of the moon
have you ever seen
the sun when it’s been
lighting your art
on fire

chasing my stars
you liar

It’s better here
on the dark side of the moon
and I tried to run
from the forlorn sun
keeping my stars
with me

(via recognizingthevoiceless)