The chair was just about comfortable enough to support Mr Gray. He was alone enough to understand the text of his obsession. Every door in the house was closed, airtight. Nothing, light, bird or rock allowed in. Each page that Mr Gray thumbed just came closer to his desserts: flan, custard, and blancmange. There was something about the plateau, a barren e-coli faintling of an underground theatre (groveled in the imaginary distance).
The reading chair was never still. It held him like a ducket holds her baby bird in roundy velvet beak. He paged pages of some nevermorious tome, that his personal organiser might appear at the window with a broken pane. His heart was posted squarely, and he spared himself no rage.
Above & below the fluctuations were noticed without comment. Hardly a soul whispered in the crowd of the silent. An o-breath tickled hissed lips in deployment of the practice. The slipway to reality, a much-needed tonic, had been blocked forever and he had scarce ever seen it working, even in his dreams.
Scarface licks the indifferent mindwave. Scarface is a tomcat. He sits on Mr. Gray's virtual lap, lapping his virtual milk of feline kindness, it's callow to think and shallow to think otherwise.
More too, airy and not ill-defined, she tripped down to the morgue to identify the Body of Texts that lay there, its toe sadly labeled.
A screen is as good as a smile, so please don't flick me off with a twist of the mouse. Oh you, pansy-man, ach du!
Twisto-rama theory, slink your way around the room and meld me to my chaise d'amour!
One works at this just because, just because, and Mr. Gray is just the pre-condition of the text that uncoils across the virtual page.
WritingDubuffetsTitles | ISBN 82-92428-29-1