Sometimes you write something that makes no sense. Actually I write a lot of things that make no sense. I have to toe a strange line between both being absolutely clear in the execution of my communication, but also give it a sense of artistic styling to convey how it should feel.
Sometimes I get it right.
Sometimes I get it wrong.
A boy sits in the pre-dawn darkness and discovers he cannot
face the world outside. So he splits
himself in three, to confront the shadows of mundane tasks that lie before him,
arrayed like a web. He sends his
restlessness to fetch the mail, picking its way across the cracks in a tile floor
that yawn wide like canyons. His
irritability confronts the noise of the street outside his window, a soundless
scream that tears through shapes of metal and glass. Listless, he lethargically imagines a world
where the crash of might become still, and silent like a blanket thrown over
his own head. So he sends his three
selves into the world, that he might explore the depression in himself.
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