I feel sick Captain. The hot chocolate made more sense than it ought. I saw a video or a film or a piece or a work. It has been following me but don't think I didn't want this to be a shorter sentence.
We sat at the bus stop in Glebe smoking cigarettes like school children and kicking our feet at catabatic things. There was never an intention to board a bus. I rolled a cigarette for Grizelda but Spencer rolled his own while he bent forwards over his crossed leg complaining that my complaining was sending him deaf. I had been slouched in a parody of drunk but that was inside where they tag you with numbers and pour sugar on plates.
Today was larger than me. It pressed on the windows. I turned my head away. After the telephoned things I had no interest in anything save for the texture of stasis in silence. An unexpected letter, with tiny beautiful gifts, could not raise so much as an eyebrow. I've had The Maple Trail** on repeat since Saturday, always preferring Radio Twilight Lost to Dirty Echo Spark.
Nothing will push back the memory of Held Without Question. Jon Wah moved on screen, hauling pixels from the grave, wrapped in the arms of his mother. Held without question. I stood in silence while the crowd moved around me. I suspended headphones with my hands while the longing formed, don't think I didn't want this sentence to be longer.
* Held Without Question (I think this is what it is called) by Jon Wah at Serial Space until 18th of December.
** More about The Maple Trail here.
We sat at the bus stop in Glebe smoking cigarettes like school children and kicking our feet at catabatic things. There was never an intention to board a bus. I rolled a cigarette for Grizelda but Spencer rolled his own while he bent forwards over his crossed leg complaining that my complaining was sending him deaf. I had been slouched in a parody of drunk but that was inside where they tag you with numbers and pour sugar on plates.
Today was larger than me. It pressed on the windows. I turned my head away. After the telephoned things I had no interest in anything save for the texture of stasis in silence. An unexpected letter, with tiny beautiful gifts, could not raise so much as an eyebrow. I've had The Maple Trail** on repeat since Saturday, always preferring Radio Twilight Lost to Dirty Echo Spark.
Nothing will push back the memory of Held Without Question. Jon Wah moved on screen, hauling pixels from the grave, wrapped in the arms of his mother. Held without question. I stood in silence while the crowd moved around me. I suspended headphones with my hands while the longing formed, don't think I didn't want this sentence to be longer.
* Held Without Question (I think this is what it is called) by Jon Wah at Serial Space until 18th of December.
** More about The Maple Trail here.
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