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.

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s

%d bloggers like this: