Grinderwoman

August 15, 2008

I passed by that way again and she was still there, or there again. And I realised that she also wasn’t: it was the sound that was inhabiting the space; thus perhaps the joylessness. She had become furniture for the grinding, a surface planed blank in the storm of noise.

And the noise itself was unhallowed, pitted, dinning: an internal manifold creasing of vital organs manifested as a constant grinding chord. Her fingers barely moved on the fretboard, and a manitou howled around her.

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