fig.321 the gracious event
Rather than giving in to any of it, Dada-Girl Patsy Cline aka, Patsy-Patsy Cline that Patsy Clone finishes reading the note before knowingly confronting this moments truth. It isn't Morocco after all and we're not in it together. This isn't Tangier, no one here will fucking die. Nothing is going to stop, the car is outside and winter has yet to take hold.
Littered as it is with the robot's leavings and burnt flags of nowhere, the gallery is still churning. The basement continues to heave greatness onto the world's floor like it's a mouth, fowl with blindness. Hiccupping bile on the treads, the retreating kids are defiantly holding the distant corners of morning at bay while Dada-Girl Patsy Cline or, Patsy-Patsy Cline that Patsy Clone continues fighting fascism in the dust behind her shed. She uses her 50 cent pencil to hold the paper down, writing furiously, I will be free.
Distance, or every mile towards the end is another one spent. Ever so dull, this blade always smiles back as I continue getting nowhere walking its length. Since being untangled from the comforts of our bed, more then just trouble has happened. No, the coffee isn't bad, nor is the mirror dim, but we're here and wondering questions made out of words.
Maybe it'll rain later, thinking that the first three songs on that album, remind me of you, Milton. Right now, lost inside Mistress, Baby, Contented Sabeteaur…
While it's happening, Milton is writing, morning comes like hot soup. There's a slow tease that's followed by the perfect oolong tea. Everything suggests a giggle, so he gigles. Then there's the warm smell of smoke in the air. It reminds him of the last cigarette he owned, how marked his last moments as a free man.
Sharing breakfast with Katt, another artist. Sitting in the Widows, she and Milton are like old neighbors. Together, munching on buttery eggs and nibbling the corners of toast while talking about the scale of an elephant joke or a pamphlets one of them found on the bus. Sometimes, when they are reading to one another, they're naked or hiding under the table. As the morning gets a little older, it begins to hint that robots can still see them.
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