"Have some flakes," your mother said but instead of taking some time to consider the invitation, you started towards the street and after a forty-minute rendezvous with Pynchon's anarchists on the road, you found yourself having another episode of a formidable seduction—a seemingly destructive distraction, a nostalgic zeitgeist turned into the form of a solitary freckle tattooed on the abysmal, capacious cleave of her bosom, two fully-blossomed tulips with a wrinkled raisin shallowly ensconced on each of its peak. And you blushed—visible carmine hues came rippling all over your unshaven face. Imagine the pang that spans from the days of your youthful escapades to this moment of ephemeral euphoria. Imagine the longing. For the schlemiel that you are, you know you’d only be kissing her lips in a meridian dream that's not even close to her idea of a happily-ever-after kind of a fairytale. You should’ve taken the flakes. You should’ve stayed home for a while. Or better yet, should've never gone out for work at all.
xdelax-circa09
0 comments:
Post a Comment