deleted
name (writing): You feel the whole
universe must be out of kilter, so great is your grief, even though you
simultaneously acknowledge there are hundreds of thousands of
people who feel the way you do right now, every day, who have always felt this
way, even back when you yourself were happy or content with your lot, and
thought all well with the world.
The
tabletop before him is littered with the detritus of his endeavour: six by four
inch photographs and loose from their file, pages covered in the tiny characters of
his handwriting, buckled with spills of blood, spattered with ink, warped
around stapled addenda and the recognisably square prints of a wet shotglass. deleted
name sits burning his palms on the heavy fibrous rope he pulls between them,
left to right and back.
He
takes a drink from the bottle of Moosehead tall amongst the debris, and then
upending it by the neck breaks it violently across the desk’s wooden edge.
Green glass and paper explode from the point of impact; the ink on those pages
immediate dissolves in spattered alcohol forfeit, existence absorbed from out
his world.
deleted
name stares at them, watching as his own words blend one into the other and
irretrievably lose their meaning.
