introibo v6; greyknive

a grey knive lurking on the corner of the bathroom counter, incongruously balanced on the edge - just about to fall - the light of day leaked into the room like dish detergent being squeezed gently out of a bottle, and over in the corner, rats rustled in a paper bag. he walked into the room to the sound of the ceiling fan slowly misunderstood. his left sneaker squeaked slightly. paper in his pocket crumpled up and a blue crayon behind one ear. a muddy cigarette in one hand and no lighter. his eyes are silently stained-glass windows inside a church with no congregation, waiting for the hollow bellpulls - the doorbell of the Almighty. he takes out a sharpie and marks an x on the wall. moments later a fly buzzes fatly in and lands on the spot, preening and humming to itself. below, at the baseboard, an ant trundles in. he looks at the mirror. he looks away. outside, a bird hits the window, and all things still, in hushed mourning. an ignorant cricket looses a selfish mating call and

2003-05-21, 4:09 a.m.

the screamer rendered furiously mute

evanesce.

'my writing's become tepid lately. stupid.'

'you quote too much,' peter says. 'it's like you're not even trying.'

'oh. mark does that. that's why.'

'still.'

'yeah. hm. i know.'

'all of my writing used to be so much ... more. when i was angsty and depressed.'

'oh. that must be hard. all of your writing coming from your self-destruction.'

'maybe i'll go back.'

[pause.]

'i was just thinking about how vain average-looking people are .. what do you think it's like to be so attractive that you don't care about vanity?'

'death?'

'hm.'

then i ran outside. and imploded somewhere along the way. the moon's half-empty. i am sitting in the dark, making fists and growling to myself. listening to a dangerous song.

i am the Accidental Traveller. i must have happened into this life by pure chance, and just got too lazy to move. on the road to trying to become more honest, i became more deceitful. on the road to trying to become more of my own person, i became someone else.

no more quotes. or lyrics.

just ... weakling. trying.

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