Outside the rain seeped off the side of the house and into the Earth. The soil drank it to quench the thirst of decomposing bones n' hair n' even flesh… decomposing is a tedious and long task you know.
After many years of evolution she would come to to hate him. He was ancient and boring… no, not in the manner of lacking the talent to provide excitement in her life. HA! She was bored of the fact that he was scratched, like a record, on certain memories.
The entire day had been cast in gray. It is a flattering tone that complements her skin. Gray he thought, it was as if though all around him storm clouds closed in on him but she… she was the one white cloud that reminded him that the sun would be out soon…she, the only one to drift peacefully in his artificial tempest.
He didn't cry. Crying was for the weak and defeated. Not yet defeated, he had no reason to crawl into his closet of past shit and weep like the rain. In short, his soul is constipated. His soul was constipated and when he needed to let out the steaming and salty solution, that would crust under his eye, the ghost if masculinity would prohibit him the right.
"You might want to close the door on your way out," she said enlightened. What had he been driving at… a quick fix… with what he usually did.
¿Why do we do the things that we do?
A black and white fantasy that memory cells transmit constantly that eventually… it has a heart-beat and being of it's own.
"Sorry" is just a bullshit phrase that politicians and the almighty use to pardon their faulty reign.
As he sat upright, the door slamming shut in the distance, he thought: well you got it. You're free or have a stronger illusion of freedom. He felt that liquor would sanitize the wounds as weed would numb the pain. How easy it would have been to follow through or not to be. But he couldn't… because he was neither Ophelia nor King Duncan. He was not done yet. Life was at the least 1/6th complete with his life. He was not done yet.
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