Crossed Writing

"Nihilism" - stantheman

2009-11-15T20:41:00.000-08:00

The highlighter slides over my every sin.

Desensitized to the pain they hold,

the word “humanity” is getting old.

I’m more than strategic,

more than just there.

I’m engaging, pondering, yet still nowhere,

near the realization that “shit is fucked”.

“I abide by a higher moral compass”,

I so often say.

This refusal to empathize,

could I really do it, looking in their eyes?

Could I stand with my laptop in hand,

above a smile so genuine, humble and true-

then say, in cold blood, “I won’t help you”?

I refuse to take the self- calculative step

and see that I have no idea.

I refuse to let my eyes pour out with pain,

to admit that I am nowhere near worth the same.

As the lives that are so often vexed,

waiting while dying and trying to get to the next,

day, hour, second, or week.

Each “one to a million” forces me to ask myself

if I could be the one.

In a second my utilitarian calculation is done.

The sad truth is I could never

let go of what I call value,

and give it to those who deserve,

and not live another day,

surrounded by the gluttony,

of a house, education and “the American way”.

Fox Sans Sox - (Notes on Insomnia topic)

2009-09-28T08:41:00.000-07:00

Of the ones I can remember, this was the fifth worst night of my life. The first two were in elementary school when a nasty cold/flu/something kept me coughing and, therefore, awake through the entire night; the third was a connecting flight through Detroit that got snowed-in; the fourth was a dozen or so Bud Lights followed by an unremembered quantity of unknown “bombs,” whose sole redeeming moment was my roommate, Brad, vomiting all over his Poli Sci TA--she’s now my girlfriend. But, for the fifth spot overall, tonight narrowly edged out the time when we decided to test whether fireworks can cook microwave popcorn (they can) without lighting fire to the bag, the box, or the jacket of the person holding the match (they cannot). You see, tonight I couldn’t sleep.

I know what you’re thinking, here’s a guy in his mid-20’s who works all day and has fun well into the night; by the time he curls beneath his blankets, he must fall asleep instantly in order to maintain that schedule. And that’s how it used to work--no matter what I had done the previous day, my body had been conditioned from Freshman year on that it would not be getting as much sleep as it wanted, so it had better steal every second I permitted from the moment my head hit the pillow until my cell phone alarm began squealing in the morning. This system worked perfectly for almost seven years--until I ran into Chris.

----------

Kevin and I were married almost six months ago; I still don’t know what to get him for the half-anniversary. I may just reprise his birthday gift (lots of sex) but, frankly, the mindless pleasure is becoming a bit dull. I never thought I would tire of sex, but after being with him for four years, there is no part of him I don’t know and nothing he could do to me that I haven’t already experienced. I think I’m ready for a child, so it’s become annoying that my own husband refuses to screw me without personally witnessing me take the pill every morning or wearing a condom (often both!). God said ‘go forth and multiply,’ not bury-yourself-in-work-to-the-point-where-you-forget-that-your-car-needs-gas-while-you’re-tailgating-a-semi-on-the-highway.

We knew the call from corporate would come eventually, we just didn't expect it to happen during our honeymoon. Now Kevin manages fourteen branch offices and eight hundred employees throughout the region. He still loves me, and hasn't cheated during any of his business trips, but he's still exhausted. I know all of this because I am his priest's psychiatrist. We aren't quite sure where the lines should be drawn in the doctor-patient-priest-parishioner milieu, but we're pretty sure we've already crossed them, so no harm in continuing along.

----------

Steve stepped outside for his break just as an ambulance roared past. Why in the world do they come here? McDonalds, Denny’s, and the new IHOP are all open 24 hours and are closer to home for most of them. Steve had a habit of asking himself rhetorical questions when he was off work. The restaurant, a greasy spoon just shy of the city limits, did a decent brunch service in the late morning, catered business lunches in the afternoon, and kept a was a popular happy hour hang-out. But Steve could not think of a single earthly reason why anyone should stick around this part of town past 9 o’clock gnawing at the night chef's overcooked dishes. Not to mention, he reminded himself, there was that one time with the wild fox.

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Dayman - "Music Box"

2009-07-16T14:35:00.000-07:00

beethoven had a music box
in the 19th century
it played some fugues he wrote
but who cares?

too old

your mother has a music box
between her legs
it makes fantastic noises
some call these "queefs"

beauty

your brother has a music box
in his room
it blasts jay-z
"i got 99 problems
but a bitch ain't one"

hit me

are you related to beethoven?
are you related to bach?
are you related to father time, who moves up the clock?
are you related to your mother who loves the male chicken?

music box

Snorlax "Father's Day '09"

2009-07-05T17:32:00.000-07:00

Richard lounged in his lawn chair, his mind simmering lightly on the backburner while his Rocky Patel crackled in his left hand. Gazing wistfully at the night sky, he blew thick rings of smoke that clouded his field of vision, ushering in the evening’s introspective vespers. Remote stars twinkled while his eyes disengaged their focus; the night, with its infinite promise, began to engulf his senses, until finally, he was left with only his ability to hear. That, too, was quickly overwhelmed by a low-pitched buzzing… then the continuous drone of a dialtone.

Uuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuu… uuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuu…

uuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuu…

*click*

“Hello?”

«Uh… hi?»

Silence.

“Well, what do you want?”

«What are you talking about?»

“Well, you called me. What do you want?”

«I can’t say I quite understand what you’re asking.»

“So then it’s answers you want! There, I can work with that. What is it that you want to know? Come come, don’t be shy. I’m happy to help.”

«Fine, answer me this; what is going on?»

“I’m here to help. People don’t call me unless they want help, and I’m happy to give it. I know you’re troubled, Richard, so let me put your mind at ease.”

«I…»

Deeper silence.

«Just, sometimes, I feel like I get lost in trivial things. Can you… show me what’s important? What really matters?»

“Of course.”

«I can hear the smile in your voice.»

“And I can hear the love in yours. Let us not waste time. Come with me; it’s time to explore.”

Reticence. Then…

Ricky’s eyes fluttered open, and he started to cry under the bright lights of the hospital.

“WAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH.”

His voice seemed to carry to drown out the fire trucks racing past the building outside. My God, he was so beautiful, with those big brown eyes. I knew he was going to be a real mensch, most definitely. Everyone was just so impressed by him, just sitting up and grinning; but you know, he was a handful at times, too. Why, one day he got mad at his older brother, Steven, and he pulled out his shmekl and gave him a shower! And all I could do was give him a stern look and warning; no one could resist that face!

He was a big boy; a little overweight when he was little, but that just means he was healthy and we fed him right. He grew into it, anyway. He could have done a little better in school, too, I suppose. I was always derkutshen him about his grades, and one day he decided to grow up and become an attorney. Well… he never really grew up, you could say. He never stopped being a little kid; his smile was like an infection that couldn’t be cured. And it spread, too! When he walked into the room, he was always singing or laughing or both. I never could understand exactly what he was so happy about, but I didn’t want to jinx it.

Rik walked down the hallway of Beachwood High School, bouncing in rhythm to the music in his head. It cradled his limbs and gave him vitality, like a second heart playing counterpoint to his corporeal one; a second heart that was just as necessary to the continuation of his life.

Ba dum, tshh, ba dum, tshh, ba dum, tshh, ba dum.

The screech of a guitar joined the fugue, and the hallway began to disappear.

Bwwaaaahh… bwahna na naaa na-na-na naaa.

The images of students were replaced by humming; lockers shook like vibrating tambourines, and the floor tiles rearranged themselves into the keyboard of a baby grand piano. Right before Rik’s eyes, the whole world had become a stage. His whole body bristled with excitement and pride; nothing else could ever matter as much as the electricity jolting through his joints.

«So it’s the music!»

“Don’t interrupt, Richard. Keep paying attention. It’s so much more than that.”

The music flowed out of the walls like water, which itself began to spill from the music and flood the halls. Rik looked down and found himself adorned in a wetsuit with an air tank strapped to his back. Entire reefs, replete with glistening coral and lively fish, blinked into existence. “What splendors lie beneath the surface!,” he sighed. He revolved, absorbing everything he was seeing like a sponge in its natural habitat.

Wheeling around, he nearly gasped, for instead of the blue-green ocean expanse he was expected, before him lay a very different outlook. The sun was setting, and looking down, Rik saw a hundred different instruments and gauges monitoring his altitude, airspeed, heading, and other variables necessary to keep him from nosediving. Clouds refracted the dying light, smearing orange and gold rays across the sky.

«It’s beautiful.»

“It’s your life.”

Dad walked in the door of his house and dropped his briefcase on the floor.

Thunk.

I was parked on the couch in the living room watching television, while Ky was idly tapping the keys at the computer. The house was aglow with the ambience of electronics and affection. Twenty minutes later, we were chatting wildly about our day over a dinner of cold ravioli. Dad got the hang of cooking eventually, but for years, it was ravioli every day. I miss it, a little bit. I miss the traditions and the little signifiers and quirks. I think those things get a lot more concrete in retrospect, though. I mean, all those things that seemed annoying at the time, or that we complained about, those are memories while they’re being manufactured. And no matter what changes in the next twenty or thirty or fifty years, we’ll still be able to laugh about cold ravioli.

The sun accelerated its descent, pushing through the clouds to bury its face below the horizon. The clouds began to burn, dissipating into billowing clouds of smoke which were siphoned away by a gust of wind. The night sky seemed less taciturn; it whispered to Richard, but the register of the words was just below comprehendible; they blurred together into a low hum. Smiling infectiously, Richard ashed his cigar on the concrete and walked inside to retrieve his phone, bouncing to the music in his head.

Stantheman - "Dire"

2009-07-03T09:24:00.000-07:00

While everyone yearns to be something more,

be appeased with what is granted.

Progress isnt defined as transformation.

But traveling towards the zenith of happiness,

where aspirations are at last met,

and tears flow at the thought of more,

the skin and dirt you toss from yourself,

as you rip a path towards what’s expected,

the self fulfillment of sheer honesty,

letting go every worry you’ve eternally held.

It’s not a happy moment, it’s not a sad.

Its just realizing that you too,

can now die peacefully.

Expressed in more than the faded memory of those dead.

Settling the score with your thrashed and aching bones,

leaving behind the reason that you said you had to wake up,

and realizing that you want to now,

the advent of knowing you’re not controlled by time,

by the lies held close to your soul,

paying ransom to an unknown force,

this is the solace your notes provide,

a recluse from the sickly times.

Forge a new path towards more than heaven.

Leaving a simple way to make people believe,

that there might just be something inside,

to save them, their souls and mind.

Until staff and clef are together at last.

The motive finally met,

a new tune to record your last regrets.

stantheman - "vive la republique"

2009-06-04T08:46:00.002-07:00

I cant imagine a time when the blood was thicker,

I cant think of a better time for liquor,

Shut yourself inside the barricade,

And hope the decision you have made,

Will end the hopeless downfall,

As cartridges tear apart the wall,

Your revolver won’t suffice,

The razor will only entice,

The fatal end of those who resist,

And the revenge that those insist,

To reform the past and the times,

As if broken brick could repair the moral crimes,

Of sheer indifference vaingloriously thrown,

With universal suffering clearly known,

The perfect time to take the stage,

Charged with uproar-fever rage,

With the only thing resulting,

Is a new monarchy consulting,

The status of the red wine streets,

While still directing imperial fleets,

Progress lost not made,

From there the revolution will fade,

Your symbolic anger is wasted,

liberation is something you’ve never tasted,

Snorlax - "Slow it Down"

2009-06-04T08:46:00.001-07:00

Curiosity is a peculiar condition. How disappointing it is to spend hours attempting to uncover the mysteries of the universe, only to discover that they are not worth knowing! How queer it is to consider that man will forfeit his own well-being for utter irrelevancies! But what a clever trap; that the realization that ignorance is, indeed, bliss, renders itself trivial.

* * * * *

The day Jason Holmes was born, his father shot himself in the left temple with a hollow-point 9mm bullet fired from a .357 Smith and Wesson Magnum. The funeral was held the next day. The casket remained closed so no one had to look at his mangled face. Everyone attending the funeral had seen a bullet wound before, most of them on television, but some of them were doctors and had seen one or two in real life.

* * * * *

When Jason Holmes was five years old, he held a butterfly in his hands. His mother preached to him: “Hold it too loosely, and it will fly away: hold it too tightly, and you will crush it.” Jason gazed at the lifeless guts in his hand. His eyes watered and his body began to shake. “Why didn’t you tell me sooner?”

* * * * *

On Jason Holmes’ sixth birthday, his aunt happened to give birth in the hospital. When his mother told him so, Jason inquired, as children are prone to do: “Where do babies come from?” His mother responded, as mothers are prone to do: “The stork brings them.” Jason would not learn about sex until four years later, when an octogenarian nurse would lecture an audience of kids and separate boys from girls and blush and speak to each group separately about their own body parts and the other groups body parts. None of the students could quite understand why these two groups needed to be separated. The nurse wouldn’t tell them. Neither would their teachers.

* * * * *

When Jason Holmes was eight years old, he entered the third grade of the American education system. There were twelve levels of this system, each level issued an ordinal designation. It was used to teach kids about numbers and war and volcanoes, and also reading so that kids could learn even more from books and encyclopedias. Some of these kids were mean-spirited, and would ask Jason why he didn’t have a father. Jason didn’t have an answer, so he went home to inquire to his mother. She glared at him, then asked: “Why do you need to ask so many questions?”

Jason shrugged. His mother’s face softened. She said: “You just tell those kids that a drunk driver killed your father.”

He went to class next day and did just that. They asked him: “What is a drunk driver?” Jason didn’t know.

* * * * *

When Jason Holmes was sixteen years old, he entered the tenth grade of the American education system. One day, he sat in a room with twenty-five other sixteen year olds while a starry man with a steel countenance faced all of them and percolated ancient history. That day, the topic was the French Revolution. Words tremulously escaped from his mouth, gathering together and gradually forming sentences. Some of them sounded like so: “Some historians believe that the storming of the Bastille symbolized victory over the reign of tyranny that the French bourgeois had wreaked for years. Most historians know that at the time of the storming, seven inmates were being housed. The building could retain about fifty prisoners in total. The rioters had heard that the prison was more cavernous and inhuman.”

Jason laughed silently at the rioters. What an empty victory, he thought. If only they had known.

* * * * *

When Jason Holmes was eighteen years old, he felt typical teenage angst, so he wrote a list of words describing how he felt in a journal he bought at Target for 99 cents. These words included: lost, confused, alone, worried, unloved, and bereft. He omitted the word “clever,” which was how he felt about himself when he completed the task. He rationalized it like this: “clever” would detract from his authenticity as a greatly troubled and burdened individual. He stored the journal underneath his mattress until six minutes later, when he removed it and added to the list “troubled” and “burdened.” He forgot about the list within a week, and never wrote in the journal again.

* * * * *

When Jason Holmes was twenty years old, he began to wonder why he was no longer as happy as he was during his infancy and childhood. He started to search for new ways to be happy. One way involved sticking a needle in his median cubital vein and drawing blood into a syringe filled with a chemical compound called heroin, then injecting both the blood and heroin back into the vein. Jason and his friends who engaged in this activity with him called heroin “dynamite,” because when the brain made them feel powerful, and all of them knew the phrase “I am no man; I am dynamite,” which was attributed to a dead man named Friedrich Wilhelm Nietzsche. They all agreed fervently that they were all, indeed, dynamite.

* * * * *

By the time Jason Holmes was twenty-three years old, he had let so many chemicals alter his mind that it could no longer process new information. He had already experienced both the happiest and saddest moments he would ever experience; so when his mother called him to apologize for lying to him for all these years and that his father had actually committed suicide, Jason only responded like this: “Oh.” Three days later, Jason snuck into his childhood home to try to find the gun that his father had used to shoot himself on the day that Jason was born, unaware that police investigators had confiscated the weapon according to Standard Operating Procedure. Instead, he discovered an epistle scribbled on a green Post-It stuck to the bottom of his father’s armoire. Jason dimly imagined he had come across his father’s suicide note. It read: “Power lies in what is possible. After you open the curtains and the light shines in, you can’t forget what you’ve seen, even if you blow up the sun or gouge out your eyes.”

While he read this, Jason’s mother entered the room and flipped the light switch. Jason saw her eyes were sad and tired and full of tears. He tried to validate her: “Thanks for trying, mom.” She nodded somberly. He left her lingering in the doorway, but could not forget what he had seen.

* * * * *

When Jason Holmes stepped outside the door, he ran until he reached the closest stretch of highway. The next day, local newspapers printed a story about a truck colliding with his body travelling at seventy-nine miles per hour. The impact caused the vital organs inside the body to hemorrhage. He was pronounced dead on impact, though in reality, Jason retained consciousness for two point four seconds. Those who read the article remained blissfully ignorant of this detail.

The man driving the truck had been moving at a speed of fourteen miles per hour above the marked limit because he had a deadline to meet. He was supposed to be delivering a shipment of books to a regional outlet of Barnes and Noble, among which were copies of “The French Revolution” by David Taylor and “Human, All Too Human” by Friedrich Nietzsche. The driver was convicted by a jury of his peers on one count of manslaughter and one count of speeding, and thus sentenced to reside in a state penitentiary for no less than eight years. After the first four years of his imprisonment, he suddenly began to laugh. Here is why: he realized that he never met his deadline because he tried to decrease his trip duration.

NeuroticMastermind - "Untitled"

2009-06-04T08:44:00.000-07:00

Scene: The residence quarters of Marquis Bernard-René de Launay, governor of the Bastille. It is the bleak, overcast morning of July 14, 1789. Scattered shouts can be heard from the lone window, and each becomes successively more difficult to ignore for the (unhappily) awoken aristocrat.

LAUNAY: (grumbling) Gaspard… (waits a moment, then mumbles louder)…Gaspard!

[Enter left GASPARD, in guard regalia. Launay sits up impatiently.]

GASPARD: Mon seigneur.

LAUNAY: Remind me what you’re doing here.

GASPARD: (nonplussed) You called for me.

LAUNAY: That doesn’t excuse your ability to hear me, which is itself uncalled for. Why aren’t you outside?

GASPARD: The situation will make itself apparent quite soon, sir.

[As he finishes the thought, a sizeable rock is hurled through the window, deflects off the ceiling, and unbalances a table, spilling its haphazardly placed contents onto the floor.]

LAUNAY: You make your point rather succinctly. My commendation.

[The table begins to creak, leaning tenuously to one corner.]

GASPARD: Such accolades, while appreciated, may be of little further use if the mob outside is to be believed.

LAUNAY: Ah, yes, that matter. (Looks around for a moment, blinks, as if attempting to remember something) What do they want, again?

GASPARD: (pauses) I’m not entirely sure, mon seigneur.

[Silence. The table collapses. Ink spills over the parchment collected on the floor. Neither man seems to notice.]

LAUNAY: (prompting) Wouldn’t it be splendid –

GASPARD: -to find out, sir. Yes, immediately.

LAUNAY: Do your best to gauge their seriousness about this whole ordeal. I won’t lose my post over some frivolous demand for bread or shelter.

GASPARD: (departing) Such things seem to be fashionable nowadays, monsieur.

[The governor is alone. He finally gets out of bed, slowly, thinking about what to do next. He glances around the room, vaguely dissatisfied with its disorder; for lack of a better idea, he paces, waiting for the guard to return.]

GASPARD: (returning, winded) I – I’m afraid I bear ill news.

LAUNAY: Sounds unfortunate. (grimacing) Can the mob be reasoned with?

GASPARD: Can any mob be reasoned with?

LAUNAY: I haven’t the time for your wit. Hold your tongue and tell me – what do they want?

GASPARD: I should think it difficult to do both.

LAUNAY: Forgive what I said earlier. Succinctness is hardly your strong suit.

[Another lengthy pause. Both seem to ignore the steadily growing din from the mob outside. Somebody else hurls a broken bit of pottery through the window, which shatters against the splintered bedpost. The canvas begins to droop]

LAUNAY: I suppose I’ll have to fix this all eventually.

GASPARD: Might I suggest that renovations cede first priority to resolving a brewing riot?

LAUNAY: You might. (thinks briefly) Demands for my head aside, bring me a written statement from their leader of the moment.

GASPARD: I’ll see if they’re asking for anything else.

LAUNAY: Let them argue amongst themselves for a while. Hopefully they’ll disagree on abstractions and go home.

GASPARD: I’m sure they prefer their routines of destitution to the momentary thrill of wishing violence on public officials.

LAUNAY: (smiling faintly) Let us hope so.

[Gaspard departs. The governor turns to examine his room again. The floor is hardly visible below a layer of debris, the bed is falling apart, and a wayward brick has leveled his bookshelf. He walks over to the wreckage, idly examining a few stray pages and busying himself by finding their rightful place. He finishes as the guard returns again, ducking a pair of manacles lobbed in his direction.]

LAUNAY: Well?

GASPARD: (checking the parchment) They want weapons, sir. Armaments, ammunition, bayonets, artillery.

LAUNAY: That’s it?

GASPARD: (Glancing cursorily) There was something mentioned about tyranny and inequality or some such issue. Shall I clear that up as well?

LAUNAY: No, let them forget it on their own.

GASPARD: They also demand (reads again, nods)…your unconditional surrender and cession over control of the prison.

LAUNAY: What was that?

GASPARD: It would seem they are determined to unseat you, sir.

LAUNAY: I’m aware. In favor of whom?

GASPARD: The public welfare? Given that their intention is to seize our weaponry, I think we can safely assume they’re not interested in reforming imprisonment conditions.

LAUNAY: This is…troubling.

GASPARD: Yes….yes, it is.

[The guard waits for further instruction while the Marquis moves toward the window, thinks better of it, and pauses; he takes a step toward the door, and pauses again. The noise from outside has grown to a raucous commotion, with a thousand furious Parisians voicing their discontent.]

GASPARD: I’ll leave you to your thoughts, then?

[He waits a moment, then hastily exits. Downstairs, the gate gives way, and the noise of the mob floods the fortress.]

LAUNAY: They’ll give up. (shakes his head) That’s the nature of these things. They’ll all have forgotten this ordeal by tomorrow. They’ll have forgotten who started it, or why they gathered. They’ll forget…

[He watches from the window as the sans-culottes lead the charge and the remainder of his guard flees into the relative safety of the prison walls.]

LAUNAY: And so will I…

Betty - "14 Juillet"

2009-06-04T08:42:00.000-07:00

A man unsteadily stands to his feet in plain view of the great cathedral, Her one face gracious like the gates of heaven and Her other, the pointed spears of hell. The last gray shadow of the night's fire works have already faded from the sky. In the disorienting haze of inebriation he ponders the minute details: why is the ground wet? where did the ash on his breast pocket come from? He registers with oscillating clarity the noises of the night -- the breaking of a wine bottle, the rise and fall of a celebratory yelp, the clipped steps of a lady's heel, the crackle of the burning tip of his cigarette. Then he passes through the arterial streets of Ile-Saint-Louis to cross over the river Seine; he treads the island to get that much closer to his destination. It is here on the right bank that he is confronted by the one in the enamel mask, a wispy imposter with a pale face. Limerence.

And, he was so close. Tossing the butt of his cigarette into the gutter, our protagonist looks down and away. With a newfound focus his gait becomes surer, and so, quicker. Turning at rue Saint-Paul he marches down Charles V. A four story apartment building with too many eyes and a large arched mouth approaches in the night. The man unlocks the heavy wooden door. Its hinges creak and edges scrape at the floor as he pushes against the carved surface. A marquee of words unravel across his head as he navigates a familiar darkness:

A light shines past this dark corner

jingling keys, one pair of steps

up a flight, maybe two

comfort ember burn midair

as another welcomed home

yet you and i are strangers;

we are both in solitude.

Giddy, he climbs the staircase laid with deep green carpet. A hand glides over the spiraling banister. At the second floor landing his self amusement is cut short by a collection of noises at the base of the building. Below the window in front of the gate, a cluster of limbs, naked legs and arms akimbo, beat at the door. The man sees several nondescript faces with the insides of their wailing mouths blackened out. He braces against the glass in horror as the monstrosity clamors not thirty feet from where he stands. He looks across into the adjacent building. There hovers tauntingly the mask. Fiercely, eyes widening, the man presses a forefinger to his lips. The lower gate caves in and unknown pairs of feet storm the hallway, trampling over his delicate trail of footprints. As the collection of voices wind up he lifts the window and jumps feet first to the ground.

A talus bone fractures; he gains a limp. He detours back to the Seine, lifeblood of the city. With every step the pain increases and the pain mirrors his growing desperation. At Pont de Sully, an unremarkable bridge, he stumbles down the concrete stairs onto the quay and collapses. When he turns a head to look behind him, there at the top of his long tumble stands that damned Limerence. At this point he waits with a sullen face, mutely beckoning the specter to approach. It descends slowly then lingers over him once more. The man leaps up and grabs it by the neck and hauls it over the parapet into the river. He watches, exhausted, as it sinks to its death. In that moment sounds of the night turn to those of dawn -- the gentle coo of a waking pigeon, the rhythmic breaking of water against the piers, the slowing heartbeat pulsing in his ear, the scraping and ignition of a match as he lights another cigarette. In that moment, instead of triumph the man feels a profound loss.

He sleeps.