Advice to heed.

It’s a story he’s heard once before.

It starts with the slow undressing of each layer, as time unfolds in its scarlet reckoning. There’s a distinct taste of sulfuric rose in the air as he descends the living room curtains, barefoot, into the shrieking ether of absentia.

The music is uplifting, sonorous and dirge-like all at once. He can see why she chose this one.

It’s a story he’s heard a few times now.

This is a little pretentious, isn’t it?

He could be wrong. He was wrong before, back in the purple pillow. It was a mistake that never should have happened, when the morning asked for his kiss and he never gave it back. He procrastinated, he made friends under tortoiseshells, he dived into the heart of the gaping maw and ended up at the dead end of the intersection.

It’s a story he’s heard many times.

It always changes though; fluid in motion, airy and gassy and intangible but there all the same. The dusk forgave him shortly after, and he always kept its counsel when he felt lost. The day he undressed the last layer the dusk was there, coherent and unintelligible. He had the feeling he’d been here before.

It’s a story he’s heard every day since he was born.

The formless mass slouches from its pedestal and falls into the sky, and the next thing he knows he rides upon the back of her misgivings, her predicaments and her everlasting love. It’s the most tragic and enlightening sensation he’s ever experienced.

It’s the story. The only story that’s ever been told. He knows every single line, each word and syllable and vowellic intonation.

I’m just as fucked up as they say. I can’t fake the daytime.

That one doesn’t belong to him. The first one didn’t either. The inspiration is hollow, like his final words. The last sound he makes. He finally gets it.



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