a certain percentage of prose.

true story.

They didn’t care. Nobody cared.
It’s a very bizarre moment in physics and existentialism when you say something that falls so hard on deaf ears that you begin to doubt that you had even said anything at all.
You start to question if anyone ever really hears you. Some actions have no reactions.

I drove on for hours through the desert, just thinking. I needed to be somewhere I could think. Somewhere empty. Somewhere I wouldn’t get distracted.

The neverending amber marbling of the desert sky was eventually dissected by a thick smokestack scrolling up from behind the horizon, getting ever higher as I drew closer. My eyes followed it for miles, until it arced over and behind me, down to a dilapidated camper van that was pulled over on the opposite side of the road.
Black smoke seemed to cluster like fog around it, billowing from the engine and windows and doors. A huddle of activity within the cloud took the form of a group of skeletal mariachis as I approached.
They stood together. Hollow eyesockets, toothy alabaster faces grinning from benath wide sunhats in matching black suits, trimmed with purple and covered with dust. They were bleaching in the sun. Taking turns to throw up bony hitcher thumbs on rest notes, but always playing. Always smiling.
I could hear brittle and hollow Gritos resonating from somewhere far, far away.. They floated through my open window on a growing swell of brass and vihuelas, and carved their way deep into my bones as ornate and beautiful flowers, and then faded as I continued past.
I could see. Clear and fresh.

"I have been wronged. I will be satisfied. I will have my retribution, and it will be brilliant. "

I watched them in my rear view mirror until they disappeared again. And the band played on and the last scintilla of doubt rode out of town.

I didn’t stop for them.
I think they understood why.
--------------------i'm definitely the alphaest male here--------------------
Last edited by FunkasPuck at Sep 12, 2011,