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42hourtransit

full-circle february

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Jan. 27th, 2011 | 12:28 pm
listening to: Tundra/Desert - Modest Mouse

Writing Prompt 2

As you think, you are a diver. Your only ritual amidst tumult and chaos, you are shadowed form, scouring the depths. Black pearls surface between crooks and kinks in a spaghetti sea; and oil-slicked expanse unfold above your head as you swim deeper.
We are in the living room but I know you're long gone. Your eyes glaze only imperceptibly but I catch the slight drawl hanging off your words like bastardized serifs, tipping ships of letters toward their abysmal fate. Each word you utter sets sail on the blackened playground under which your mind's eye scavenges-- a black sea, covered now by a blanket of empty colloquialisms, with no gap left in between to come up for air.
The longer you speak, the further your crooked tongue pushes you under the tide and towards your core, but everything is order there, and benevolent in its banality. Each pasta loop determined by a set algorithm, and the bubbles of tar rising in logical succession.
You never wondered how you could be so comfortable in your own mind, but after your daily swim, I could ask you questions for the remainder of the day about how you managed to hold your breath for so long. Your answers were always delivered calmly, but so cryptic that I eventually gave up.
There is nothing in the world that you could offer me to get me yo give up this daily ritual of ours. In order to find solace in my own chaos, I had to come to terms with your blinding precision. My own searches turned up no results, save for rusting diving gear and mottled ground.

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