Maria was a chubby, middle aged, self sufficient woman.
Her perfectly set hair resulted to the ‘self sufficient’ perceptivity.
She faced the wall, sitting straight. Her jaw said, “Relaxation is an art.”
One could imagine her voice to be a stern, smooth one. Which doesn’t consist of rough elements or hesitation.
You loved Maria.
You love Maria.
You wrote to me, “She is horrible, like marmalade.”
I said, “A photograph did this to me and you.”
I have always been hooked to little moments of glory.
When you are high and try to relocate yourself with little presents.
Glory, in seconds.
Glory, absolute glory.
I forgot to mention the times when you are in between sex,
with your coital-cock, living up to remarkable lies and edginess.
You have ruled out generous words and slow-time.
Think about it.
I think about it. I feel strange.
Like hot and cold.
Butter and sauce.
Why is that so childish and predictable?
Of glory moments. You vigorously nodded, while listening to Ravel. I read out Maria’s moment of glory to you.
Future perfect and present continuous ;
words of troubles and various tiny fears waiting to perish.
We are receiving anomalists with little or no hope to live for science. Or art. They find themselves in the tunnel of dying men and women trying to capture every second.
Every second passing by. Now. Then. Before.
Taking shapes of LineWire 101, they’re calling out for small, slow, bird like creatures.
A combination of sparrow and a snail.
A voice of substance from the valley of Roses.
Developing a body, a human body. Blood, bones, muscles.
Blood, bones, muscles.
Blood, bones, muscles.
Right now is a cold afternoon with no sunlight. I can see few stray dogs running around, trying to find a shelter. And the book shop’s closed for a quick nap. Near to the book shop, I am accosted by a man. Wearing suspenders. I talk to him and think him to be overly dramatic and expressive. After a loud ten minutes, he asks me to walk to the park with him. His son’s waiting for him with his favourite strawberry ice cream. “It’s probably melting.” On the way, he tells me how petrified he is of his dreams. He thinks the Mad Man will catch him someday and make him forget every thing he has achieved so far. This thought kills him every day. And how he feels depressed quite often. “My wife, she does it.” I don’t say anything. I am tired. We reach the park and do not find his son. The man starts crying and apologetically walks away.
A while back, I was reading a magazine at the local coffee shop when I met the Mad Man. He belongs to an article. About another Mad Man. Wearing suspenders.
I look up and see a man wearing suspenders. “You’re here, welcome.”