I was at home like always.
Little details are standing out in strange ways. It is impossible to meet this quota. In the middle of the night we tend to the prodigal sons and it was at this moment the necessary message from someone kind came through. There were already candles lit. Has there ever been another denouement so perfectly planned? The photographs are not new anymore and it is much harder to read the words now than it was then.
He cannot explain anything right now. He can only splash clashing colors on a canvas and when he stands back from it he sees that nothing looks good. He is inadequate in every possible way. That is quite a frustrating thing, even more so when in the face of something so powerful. But these things he releases from his brain. Though since the sunrise his voice has trembled and been low.
There’s something in his eye and there has been all day long. He has to disguise everything. There is no sense otherwise. This is the world he has created for himself. His pain is ridiculous.
In a room somewhere this is all taking place. There are very few people inside. Precious words are given light soon afterward and this allows anyone who wishes a chance to enter, just a little bit. That is enough for now and likely will have to be enough for always.
You’re so deep in your room now, just a little girl. There is such a fear of frankness and from that stems the desire to disfigure everything. That is the reason for these cutups. Taken as love, it is irreparably damaged.
The grain of truth in everything is that one inspires the other. I am beside myself with this sensation of freedom. There was always going to be a limit to the transparency.
This was a gift meant for those who knew. And now he knows that he was part of that moment, right there when it really mattered. Blue is the color of my room and that is where I shall live. I do so hope the absurd won’t be taken for granted in the coming eternity for that was so crucial.
He much time is he going to spend examining everything, trying to uncover symbols and second guessing every word? Is there any chance of taking things on face value? This will find a way into everything he writes from now on. Though it is highly doubtful that anything he writes will ever be worth a damn.
There is an unexpected train of thought and it certainly mixes things up. Yet there was that necessary message; someone boldly stepping in. That is why it came from you, I can see that now; something new and unexpected and wonderful in this world.
It just plays on repeat right now, everything is black. This is foreknowledge and this is touching sentimentality. This is a particular type of gift.
She hasn’t written nearly enough but she’s given it so much thought. Every time she sees a new message tears threaten to spill down. Sometimes they don’t just threaten and something catches in her throat and she begins to cry. Is that blood on her face?
She was there on the first day, first hour, the opening. Now this is some perverse point of pride for her and though she acknowledges a certain sickness in this pride it does nothing to diminish it. She shares her sadness and regret while begrudging others the same form of release. She wonders if they were only present on the brightest days, if their devotion was somehow falser for its selectivity and short term memory. She wants to go to them and tell each and every one that their feelings are false and their faces betray this and they will be smiling soon enough and moving on to something easily digestible while her feelings will never dissipate. In the next breath she hates herself too much to do anything and realizes she is not what was desired.
She has time to consider and recall meeting him once in a restaurant before she had any idea about anything. The memory is still beautiful and it is too easy to put herself back there and feel how well they got on. It is also easy to remove everything that came afterward and jump right to the awful end. She has time enough to wonder if she had known how it would all turn out would she have ever wanted to speak to him at all.
She clears the dust off the old piano and there are cobwebs stretching from the fallboard to the faded keys. She presses down on a few of the keys. She is not playing a song, not thinking about any proper succession of notes. She is simply filling the air with anything that can take away the silence. After a while others join in and gradually they find a melody, something familiar and warm. By the end of it they are singing and she feels blessed that she never knew anything in advance.
Later on his brain is still a scattered mess. Stepping outside it was difficult to accept this shift. There were many moments of melodrama and there will doubtlessly be many more. He tries to focus on the plan, an impossible plan that somehow makes sense of all the tragedy. One last change in this world. A new career in a new…what, exactly? Not everything can be revealed and it is somehow more appropriate. He is entering the wardrobe one more time, this is his chosen finale, to be forever left as a muse and leaving us to wonder in what new fantastic form he may emerge as in the next life. This is the best ending. This is dignity. This is purposeful. This is art. I still cannot stop crying.
There is smoke coming up out of the metal street grates in SoHo but it does not touch the flowers.
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