[continuing from the last]
"I gotta hand it to you really," it continued. "You’re wearing a headphone and you’re still trying to guess!"
"It’s unplugged." He didn’t bother to move, he was putting both his hands into his pockets, trying to chew the wrong end of the cigarette after a swift move of the tongue. The man who was not yet named was seemingly losing his patient as of now, and this didn’t happen much. He was tapping his feet constantly, one following another, covered by white socks with red stripes near the openings, told as aestival mementoes. His forehead sweaty, leaving poles of hair sticky like leeches, revealing a wailful baldness.
"Do you think…" He raised his head up a bit. "…you can survive without the fated chains?"
"I’m part of the system, Frank! I’m electronical, wildly cynical at the utmost preservations! A product of advanced ideologies! I do not exist, I’ve never survived!"
Frank walked forth and left the flashy cage. The music was slowly disrupting behind his back, with him having no clues whatsoever of its real identities. He wondered if it really mattered, if anything mattered. He used to be having these dreams for a period of time some years ago, these fictional dreams that were in resemblances with a bit of the comic he read when he was reaching puberty, called Sandman. Vertigo’s ‘Sandman’, to be exact. He was a king, some sort of a Roman emperor, and he was occupying along with a servant of his some few lowest perrons just in front of The Pantheon, all disguised as hobos, watching civilians starving lividly in the markets, falling like flies before their scabious feet, leaving home early before curfews. They were discussing many things, though mainly along the lines were the personalized problems, the Empire’s inevitable fall as a possesion of one man, his own death, his childhood’s integrities. Then he woke up, and it did not matter anymore. He forgot about it all in the first five minutes when the sunlights would hit his eyes intensely at certain directions, so it did not matter. Frank cared not if all things had been indeed the rightful truths, that Augustus, Claudius or whoever that emperor was, deliberately planned his own destructions and brought his entire achievements, accomplishments to the mixtures of his ashes, his people’s ashes. Frank cared not, because the happening was repetitive, because it was uninteresting, and it had already happened, it couldn’t change anything if realisations became global. So long as he existed and everything in moral relations continued to be visually and mentally felt in an odd blue ball, it mattered, until another apocalypse came then it wouldn’t anymore. Not anymore. The banner was getting heavy, the rope was prickling the sides of his neck, letting a sense of decapitations drawing closer and closer with each minutes past. He kept screaming for anonymous help, but his father was busying fighting his mother now, with his fat stomach of beers. Time flies, flows and changes, he assumed, like the spirits of people. He wanted his sister so bad, but he dared not speak out, along this corridor where things were obsolette and penetrable to the max.
And thus, came the inner clouds.
You’ve started growing some sparky reflections of feathers. Thousands of years, it seems, have dropped behind you. Your perceptions are now supposed to change, or be changed, you’re thinking. You’ve had your first kisses, in a sense. Your parents are becoming adumbrations, simulacra, pretty fast. Gotta have, gotta get something to do, you’re wishing. Smells of sweet polymer, you’re condescending for them. Your friends are leaving, say you gotta abandon the house, man! Or so you’re recalling.
You’re shooting the chutes, possibly adulterated versions of them, into the mouths of your iconologies. You imagine yourself in a broken mirror, fit, built, under arrays and layers of customized suits, ready to be in for a mainstream pop trip. You plan to push your palms up against Hollywood’s dirt. You’re wanted by Harland Sanders for the participation in a gang bang and Japansese mysteries. You want to punch O’Briens in the face and fuck a shallow chick. You would thrive under the soil of Middle Vietnam’s caves, copyrighted of their gold rushes, you thought. You want to travel around the world with your cameras too, that there many can be confirming.
So where are you now? Dylan’s Highway 61? There are circuses besides the road, singing songs for the deaf as them tigers become life-givers for the oratresses who love using a philosophical paradox.
Rusts are clawing up your skin, man, has your brain been developed yet? I for one, well, I feel…, at least the surrounding scenarios have changed.
But that’s okay.
That was okay.
"We’ve now officially reached Humans Must Never Die. See that camera? Yes. How do you feel now, Cris?”
"Nothing interesting. My breathings are a bit loosened up, I feel, but that’s not the important thing."
The cigarette’d burnt out, only left a few figurations of what was once. Frank spitted it out into the seemingly expensive carpet, and a one liner that was so obscure. He didn’t know what to think of at the moment, he just wanted to get on with it. He was to be hanged like his idola, but he, he didn’t care much. The banner’d already started its journey of going upwards like a balloon for a few hours now, and it just didn’t matter. It did not matter that his dad was fired because of him, at most, only a few sighs were publicly hushed up.
Frank uncoiled the unplugged headphone off his head and rolled the wire around his neck, a Middle Eastern prince before another execution. Whispers from the Last Year at Marienbad started their ups and downs, waving around his mind, were ready to surrender something precious. The corridor seemed endless. The man who was not yet named kept on leading them alleys after alleys, lanes after lanes, as if pushing trolleys around and back again in a supermarket for the completion of a carefully planned, scrutinized list of commodities. Red buttons were blinking, following each other’s deftnesses in sounds and visuals, unique to the extent of a third party species in a trophical forest. For long, nobody said a thing, but that wasn’t to say that everybody was pleased with such condition and temptlessnesses.
"Moon blankets all lingering senses of summer, as she puts on her nightly gown and calls upon Mary, is tempted to ask for newer boyfriends to fuck her next weekends. The sweet touches of gravity from the hourglass-owned grits draw shadows nearer and nearer, like disgusting zombies. All the while Frank Hoetz and his swarms of regular Johns are mantling the fences of unrelated fathers and mothers, just as casuistic personalities are leaving bays for charm intromittings."
"Nice write, buddy."
"You heard me: Nice write."
A state of disequilibrium spreaded through his cheeks, made it red like a child he was, or was once. He wanted to choke the bastard so bad, the talky chump, the nameless monster. How dared he! How dared he spoke so blatantly, with a monotone, in the open, just before the meeting, the cameras, the walls, the colorless cracks in all them throats, the missteps of ants and their soundless fallings into this rabbit hole? How dared he?
[to be continued]