...and there's a strange optimism that borders on delirious. that's a good thing, right? I mean
let's at least try to start a fire
it doesn't have to be profound if the power of the impact is there, enough for the intensity to be felt absolutely.
lets not disguise our vices
we probably don't even have to try.
its almost biblical. look, it gives me the goosebumps, she says. she's always a delight to watch in times like these. the phase of nostalgia for something not yet lost. but dangerously close.
look up and smile
I'll pretend as long as I can, he swears. she watches him sadly, as the window shrinks the horizon. never was a man so desperate while dangerous and lustfully whimsical at the same time.
steal the stars and sell them cheap
I'll do it with you, she smiles, the picture of post-adolescent lust. its something new, I'll give you that, he smiles. its not so much fun after a while, you see.
this is the part where the nostalgia is supposed to be unpleasantly overwhelming. this is how life is, as a stereotype and parody in the same fucking self.
its not ours to lose so skip to the end. a cliche is only as good as its moral. nobody said that. somebody should have, smirks our hero and sips his single malt. it doesn't get better than this. but shouldn't it? he looks at her, gleaming. you don't have to be a poet all the time, she shys, reluctant.
it never was, it never will
...so we can break it down to tangibility, and be surprised, he rants, his eyes the ugly shade of pale. she doesn't mind. she smiles and plays along. its good for now. and that's the game. who reaches the point of no return first. no one says anything like that any more, he scoffs. we should've been born in an earlier time, she mocks-- him. the night is lit but not bright. good for thought, he says, crossing his leg over and looking across the deck.
does it never hurt?
* * *
pictures change. nobody came. what are we doing? he smirks, this time too obviously. do you always cheapen things like this? she says, spinning full circle, coming back to meet him at shoulder length, not out of reach. isn't this how it was supposed to be? the lights and the traffic? just so painful in scorn. he knows its best to drop guard and run far,and yet he enjoys the chill that owns him. its only so much we can do.
don't you get tired of your smile? he whispers, still learning to adapt to the change. this is how its supposed to feel, she smiles, glaring. cruel irony, fair sister to the birth of tragedy, allow one more epiphany to embrace our virtues and credible ideas, and successfully eliminate the rest. don't you miss having dreams? he smiles at her, unsure. do you want to forget so much? she is now no longer a supporting character but an opposing, fiery one. we see him chase after her down the make-believe hall towards dry land and familiar turf. please just turn around, I promise it will be good.
this is not how its supposed to end.
* * *
the arrogance has now evaporated, leaving shrivelled up remains of mud-stained blood dolls. nobody stands here long anymore. there is always jazz music playing in the background (the jukebox must be broken), people used to dance here, but nobody stays here anymore.
cynics together make a tower
they climb atop to write:
R.O.M.A.N.C.E
they'll never survive and they'll never know it. two lovers make a fool, take the pill, and make miracles happen as we sleep, and that's how they're better than us.
the world isn't always a bad place, she sighs. you don't know that, he turns, sardonic in his blue suit. I can sum you up in thirty seconds. does that make you better than us? her innocence drives him to murder some day in an ideal future. we don't need this, an announcement. there you go again. hurry up now, you might begin to like lingering, she smiles, closing in on him.
turn and explode. white lights and skies of azure and grey, with shadows and graves. I am the escapist and this is my make believe world, he mocks-- him.
so you do believe in confession, she grins, victorious. I meant, sometimes it can be a terrible place. BURN EVERY PICTURE THAT'S CHANGED. spray painted in his room, on the north wall, an over-exaggerated attempt at rebellion. its for the sake of simplistic characterisation, he explains, lamenting: there are so many labels and categories in the world. this is not the ideal place for anything. silence.
you should not be so basic all the time, she whispers, not looking at him. do you want me to lie? he asks. if you must, she looks away. not for long. you don't realise how powerful hatred can be. oh, I think I have an idea. then you should know better than to advocate such violent imagery in front of strangers, I mean god! does it never get to you? uncontainable raindrops unkind and unconvinced on a window painted yellow. in this faint hour, they are naked and exposed and two feet apart.
how long do you want to like this? I don't have it mapped out. yet.
gun-shy, with a wound
timid, and always here
I am not used to being heard so carefully, I apologise. he turns again, re-emerging as a Victorian villain. and then you wonder why I don't travel. she smiles, sheepish. lets call it Divine this time, your point of view.
that's a favourite, isn't it? no. the concept used to be, but the idea not so much. lets lighten the mood. how about a little stage show. we got Seattle, California, and Seattle, all from different times, all in the same room. "I'm so excited, I can't wait to meet you there." and then the lights burst, cathartic and volatile at the same time-
stop trying so hard, she has to yell over the volume of the performer. he shifts to the stage and surrenders to a legend, and every ounce of lust is drained, to be replaced by adrenaline.
I like it, I'm not gonna crack
the stage is the periphery, the bass line the heart-beat, distortion the diet cancer and the voice of a cocky god.
it finishes just as it started, suddenly.
and here Ladies and Gentlemen, the house announcer's voice booms, we have a fine collection of souvenirs from the Uncertainty Principle--
change again.
more urban animals with their hormones are driven to huge gatherings. dynamics are over-powering, I'll give you that, he nods. I didn't ask, she says expressionless. if only we didn't think so much. look, its made you colorblind. accidental level star. stop doing that. risk vibration in a vacuum. fill a jar with ecstatic poison meant for a beast but given to a priest. I mean nun. foreign, supernatural extraterrestrial paranoia. something! don't leave me here, what are you doing? she croaks, smoke still too far down her throat for her to pay attention. don't you feel nice when somebody else falls?
* * *
sit on the hood of a car on a deserted highway at sunset. you can hear it in the background, even though everything else was shaped around the sought after tranquillity--
lets not talk for a while, she interrupts. they both retreat, the frame panning out, imaginary love blooms in the dark, but doesn't last. they can't even relate to it any more. because its not theirs any more. the song continues but they're already driving off.
lets not call it escapism or fear every time. it only accelerates the spiral down. they look at the pretty wallpaper and expensive food and marvel and its delightful penetrative success. how are we doing here, asks the manager, busy man, waiter whore pimp, and we see them all smile, pleasured by the simple fact of his presence. its funny how he walks, she says, scanning his frame and every move. it is. how so? she breaks into a smile. purpose achieved. its like every bit of movement is meant for an audience, an arena. he looks at her. we follow the silence pretended between them while the rest of the world continues to exist.
what good is it if all you know are ideas of men from two eras ago? it is not universal truth, there are too many victims in the long run! maybe that fact is paid too much damn attention, he's not polite, and we don't know why.
we see them walk out and disappear.
*
let's at least try to start a fire
it doesn't have to be profound if the power of the impact is there, enough for the intensity to be felt absolutely.
lets not disguise our vices
we probably don't even have to try.
its almost biblical. look, it gives me the goosebumps, she says. she's always a delight to watch in times like these. the phase of nostalgia for something not yet lost. but dangerously close.
look up and smile
I'll pretend as long as I can, he swears. she watches him sadly, as the window shrinks the horizon. never was a man so desperate while dangerous and lustfully whimsical at the same time.
steal the stars and sell them cheap
I'll do it with you, she smiles, the picture of post-adolescent lust. its something new, I'll give you that, he smiles. its not so much fun after a while, you see.
this is the part where the nostalgia is supposed to be unpleasantly overwhelming. this is how life is, as a stereotype and parody in the same fucking self.
its not ours to lose so skip to the end. a cliche is only as good as its moral. nobody said that. somebody should have, smirks our hero and sips his single malt. it doesn't get better than this. but shouldn't it? he looks at her, gleaming. you don't have to be a poet all the time, she shys, reluctant.
it never was, it never will
...so we can break it down to tangibility, and be surprised, he rants, his eyes the ugly shade of pale. she doesn't mind. she smiles and plays along. its good for now. and that's the game. who reaches the point of no return first. no one says anything like that any more, he scoffs. we should've been born in an earlier time, she mocks-- him. the night is lit but not bright. good for thought, he says, crossing his leg over and looking across the deck.
does it never hurt?
* * *
pictures change. nobody came. what are we doing? he smirks, this time too obviously. do you always cheapen things like this? she says, spinning full circle, coming back to meet him at shoulder length, not out of reach. isn't this how it was supposed to be? the lights and the traffic? just so painful in scorn. he knows its best to drop guard and run far,and yet he enjoys the chill that owns him. its only so much we can do.
don't you get tired of your smile? he whispers, still learning to adapt to the change. this is how its supposed to feel, she smiles, glaring. cruel irony, fair sister to the birth of tragedy, allow one more epiphany to embrace our virtues and credible ideas, and successfully eliminate the rest. don't you miss having dreams? he smiles at her, unsure. do you want to forget so much? she is now no longer a supporting character but an opposing, fiery one. we see him chase after her down the make-believe hall towards dry land and familiar turf. please just turn around, I promise it will be good.
this is not how its supposed to end.
* * *
the arrogance has now evaporated, leaving shrivelled up remains of mud-stained blood dolls. nobody stands here long anymore. there is always jazz music playing in the background (the jukebox must be broken), people used to dance here, but nobody stays here anymore.
cynics together make a tower
they climb atop to write:
R.O.M.A.N.C.E
they'll never survive and they'll never know it. two lovers make a fool, take the pill, and make miracles happen as we sleep, and that's how they're better than us.
the world isn't always a bad place, she sighs. you don't know that, he turns, sardonic in his blue suit. I can sum you up in thirty seconds. does that make you better than us? her innocence drives him to murder some day in an ideal future. we don't need this, an announcement. there you go again. hurry up now, you might begin to like lingering, she smiles, closing in on him.
turn and explode. white lights and skies of azure and grey, with shadows and graves. I am the escapist and this is my make believe world, he mocks-- him.
so you do believe in confession, she grins, victorious. I meant, sometimes it can be a terrible place. BURN EVERY PICTURE THAT'S CHANGED. spray painted in his room, on the north wall, an over-exaggerated attempt at rebellion. its for the sake of simplistic characterisation, he explains, lamenting: there are so many labels and categories in the world. this is not the ideal place for anything. silence.
you should not be so basic all the time, she whispers, not looking at him. do you want me to lie? he asks. if you must, she looks away. not for long. you don't realise how powerful hatred can be. oh, I think I have an idea. then you should know better than to advocate such violent imagery in front of strangers, I mean god! does it never get to you? uncontainable raindrops unkind and unconvinced on a window painted yellow. in this faint hour, they are naked and exposed and two feet apart.
how long do you want to like this? I don't have it mapped out. yet.
gun-shy, with a wound
timid, and always here
I am not used to being heard so carefully, I apologise. he turns again, re-emerging as a Victorian villain. and then you wonder why I don't travel. she smiles, sheepish. lets call it Divine this time, your point of view.
that's a favourite, isn't it? no. the concept used to be, but the idea not so much. lets lighten the mood. how about a little stage show. we got Seattle, California, and Seattle, all from different times, all in the same room. "I'm so excited, I can't wait to meet you there." and then the lights burst, cathartic and volatile at the same time-
stop trying so hard, she has to yell over the volume of the performer. he shifts to the stage and surrenders to a legend, and every ounce of lust is drained, to be replaced by adrenaline.
I like it, I'm not gonna crack
the stage is the periphery, the bass line the heart-beat, distortion the diet cancer and the voice of a cocky god.
it finishes just as it started, suddenly.
and here Ladies and Gentlemen, the house announcer's voice booms, we have a fine collection of souvenirs from the Uncertainty Principle--
change again.
more urban animals with their hormones are driven to huge gatherings. dynamics are over-powering, I'll give you that, he nods. I didn't ask, she says expressionless. if only we didn't think so much. look, its made you colorblind. accidental level star. stop doing that. risk vibration in a vacuum. fill a jar with ecstatic poison meant for a beast but given to a priest. I mean nun. foreign, supernatural extraterrestrial paranoia. something! don't leave me here, what are you doing? she croaks, smoke still too far down her throat for her to pay attention. don't you feel nice when somebody else falls?
* * *
sit on the hood of a car on a deserted highway at sunset. you can hear it in the background, even though everything else was shaped around the sought after tranquillity--
lets not talk for a while, she interrupts. they both retreat, the frame panning out, imaginary love blooms in the dark, but doesn't last. they can't even relate to it any more. because its not theirs any more. the song continues but they're already driving off.
lets not call it escapism or fear every time. it only accelerates the spiral down. they look at the pretty wallpaper and expensive food and marvel and its delightful penetrative success. how are we doing here, asks the manager, busy man, waiter whore pimp, and we see them all smile, pleasured by the simple fact of his presence. its funny how he walks, she says, scanning his frame and every move. it is. how so? she breaks into a smile. purpose achieved. its like every bit of movement is meant for an audience, an arena. he looks at her. we follow the silence pretended between them while the rest of the world continues to exist.
what good is it if all you know are ideas of men from two eras ago? it is not universal truth, there are too many victims in the long run! maybe that fact is paid too much damn attention, he's not polite, and we don't know why.
we see them walk out and disappear.
*
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