I remembered Marie's disillusioned expression in her brother's disillusioned attic where we solved those hard math problems like old professors that students dare gave apples to. It was almost like an offense in that college. The partition between my esophagus and stomach has apparently been blurred, because of eating too much or too less. I can never bring myself to believe anything that came out of that restaurant was good, nor being there for the discussion and feeling left out was any better. I came out of that place with a feeling of dissatisfaction, likened to that novice hairdresser's failing attempts at fixing his mistakes. That feeling of not wanting more was backed up by my convincing myself that the food was akin to poison, and any more of that would cause my face to flare up. I recalled that disillusioned place again and again for the sake of it. The stench surrouding my head was a mess. A big ****ing mess.


The lamp was shining wholeheartedly at my pencil, acting like a plastic sun. Marie's shadow stood on the paper that was left on the floor. The whole attic smelled of paper. I redid every one of those problems with her pink butterfly eraser, ocasionally skipping over the rather trivial ones. I wore a shark-tooth necklace which I sometimes traded in for a dung beetle stuck in a plastic box. My jacket was worn intermittedly, depending whether or not I felt like being noticed by strangers I never felt the need to impress, but needed to prove my superiority to. If I felt helpless, the chair wore it for the day, or the day afterwards, if it was severe.

The bedroom was a dark shape in the house's mess of details. At night the metal sequins from her beaded dress would shine and reflect off the computer screen. Her screensaver was a different one everyday. Misspellings were a misfortune, she would often say, like some drawn out college professor, the kind that would say thank you after holding out for them the door of their car.

Some sounds started playing in the background when we started the next problem, maybe the sixty-seventh or the sixty-sixth. It was sort of similar to old Bright Eyes or Chauchat. I stopped my pen, told her i'd be back later. I wanted to meet this amazing or at least remotely interesting person next door.

His apartment was upstairs, I soon found out (I followed my ear like a hound).

I decided to spy in from the window, to avoid him as much as possible. He was probably busy recording anyway, and not wanting to be disturbed. Hoping not to be miscontrued as a thief, I climbed out the corridor and into the night air, suprisingly chilling and tingly refreshing. I looked into the busy street and felt like jumping of the ledge, wondering how my tangled mess of a body would look like in the newspaper tomorrow, and how Marie would weep. I probably would've done it, if I was midly drunk and slightly elated, just like I do before I need to talk to someone I feel is remotely important to me, just to please them or put on a face.

I slid my fingers into the glass, the wind blowing my hair diagonally, creating bangs, and put a little peep-hole into the foggy glass. It reminded me of the car windshield when me and my mother would go out for a routine drive to the mall or groceries during the rain. The air would be cold, but it was the impression the car's mini-atmosphere created that made me think the rain was a dry, cool, fun place to be in, and not sticky sultriness, which ironically, was summmer to me at least. It seldom rained the past few years, maybe signaling the end of my childhood, or things like that. I felt like jumping again, but I wanted to see who he was.

He was there.

The windowpane created the impression of a flat two-dimensional space. He moved like a picture in a picture frame. I felt so voyeaurish at the moment, I wanted to jump again, making me wonder where this convienience had been in other moments of social awkwardness. He was sitting on the floor, holding his video camera to his ear, tilting his head. His guitar was laying on his knee. It was the outside's macro-atmosphere that made me think he was listening to the sound of the rain pouring driblets, hard and pelting mad.

He was the sort of guy, if he was a professor, you could share drugs with and keep secrets about your fantasies with the girls in school.

I invited him to come to dinner with me and Marie to this restaurant whose name I will not disclose, but I will mention it has something to do with potted plants and gardening in Athens.

His name was Antoin, and I wanted to be like him when I grow up.

Too bad I'm already grown up.

(blank space passed by that I could barely remember)

I'm standing on the rooftop taking in the absent morning's cousin,
otherwise doing nothing
but waiting to be struck with glorious lightning.


I tentatively posted this, all in one sitting.

edit: upon reading this the next day, It sounds like a high schoolers work. bleh.
Quote by icaneatcatfood
On second thought, **** tuning forks. You best be carrying around a grand piano that was tuned by an Italian
Last edited by Laces Out Danny at Aug 31, 2008,