Sunday, March 29, 2015

2152 : Rage against the machine

The sound of a blaring jazz trumpet. The car that honks and echoes of a V8 gone sour. The chatter of the lips and the platter of the feet. The surround sound of the children and the friends. The blinding fury of light, a circadian rhythm all gone wrong.

He was counting minutes, or more importantly he wanted to count minutes. Yet he was only able to count moments. He wanted to be silent, untouched and still for minutes.

Yet with tick, he had another loud soundstorm.

Within him, the emptiness rose. As the duel continued, the vacuum inducing from inside versus the valium seducing din from the outside - he simply slumped onto the pavement....crouching into a hunched position, and huge giant sized tears started flowing.

He never ever knew what caused it, but till his dying day he maintained that in that moment, he had felt like mourning. RIP.

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