Prose

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He moved in a sway of movement, half-rippled time flowed through his bones. He remembered being at the restaurant, the smell of cigarettes and the slow juice that crept out of his steak. He was there only for a moment. Everyone else was ready for the party, dressed in pressed shirts. He arrived there with sandals and the shirt he forgot to wash.

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Now he sat alone in his bed. Lying in the ether of his blankets and watching the electronic images flow through the screen. Is it possible to feel unfinished with your own emotions? It was eleven o’clock and he could still feel the tipsy mist stroking his head with a strange hand. Pathos they call it. When a character is almost miserable. When you’re stuck between the fork prongs.

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He cleared his throat with the mischief of a cough. His head buried into unconscious content of the duvet. He could start to dream, and smell the lacquer of the future. Because dreams were real. The slow effervescence of quiet waved away the ticking chaos. When you sleep you are no longer feeling. You are riding through dialogue, and counting the dog-eared pieces of color.

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It is morning now. He sloughs off the creases in his head. He sits down and waits for the kettle to finish losing its temper. He dips his lip into the soft warmth of coffee. He can breathe again. The last drops gather together in a brown crown, circling the depth. It reminds him of the dream that lies at the bottom of everything. It watches the quiet voices start to murmur something about the underside of our minds. They are there in the bed with us, much like the static coffee droplets and our scrambled hair, for a little while.

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PhilosopherPoet

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