Phase one - calyx volte
[the pittar patter of rain and the soles of their feet]
Once upon a time. There was a boy. Later on in life he came home. He looked at himself in the mirror when he came home and he forgot. He enjoyed the scenes reminiscent of television [his teachers would have described it as a tenuous link, he wouldn't have been able to explain it that much to even get them to know that it was tenuous, when it wasn't].
He came home. He was worried about a boy he knew. The boy was really nice and stuff but he didnât cope too well with life. Shame. He was quite worried.
Very worried. Just incase you were wondering the boy wasnât worried about himself here. Then he went to bed. The moon was, basically, a direct line between his bed, his head, and the moon. Weird, he thought, the moon is straight from the moon to my eyes. He got up and looked/watched the moon for a while. It amazed him how you could see patterns on the moons surface. This had never, to his knowledge, ever amazed him before. Maybe the last time the moon amazed him he was a child.
Time passed a bit before he fell to sleep. He felt fairly comfortable, he wasnât in relationship trouble or anything. Everything was fairly basic down-to-earth but he didnât much care. He wasnât in a relationship and there was no one he knew who he wanted to be in one with. There is no-one I donât know who I want to be in a relationship with, he thought. I'm not that keen on myself either, he thought also, give it time maybe one day who knows life lines risk lime pits quicksand y'know, he also thought. He basked for a second in the knowledge he was thinking ok again. He was thinking in a way that was nicely secure private and non-comprehensible.
Sometimes the boy wrote stories. He liked writing stories and he liked the way it flew out he just didnât like the way he found the 3 or 4 days of preparation time to be worthless slightly and a pre-chore to the chore of actually getting around to the start of the story. An added bonus, he thought, is that no one knows what the fuck my stories are about. He didnât believe that.
He was still worried. He was still glad he wasnât madly smitten with anyone. He knew this was a semi-lie semi-truth. He knew he wasnât smitten at all. Merely fond. He'd grown up a bit more from his days sat around in science classes watching his not-so-soon to be wife.
He basked and worried. He slept. He woke. He took everything at face value. He took nothing at face value.
He sat eating breakfast and then remembered another television moment.
Phase 2 - I believe it was euphoric in a cinematic sense, albeit mildly
Etc. etc. etc. etc. etc. etcetera.
Somehow he had been plunged and then risen underneath the boat. he had risen in-between the two wings and was trapped between them the water below and the skin on the boat above. The life jacket prevented his flailing attempts to swim under the boat as it forced him into the floors floor of the boat. Thrash. Thrash. Trash. He panicked. He had panicked. He could see. His eyes were open. It had the element of cinematicism in underwater shark attack panic flushed with blood with no blood. Any blood was inside him. It was no fun and no joke. Later on he was disturbed how no one understood or knew. There was also a lack of cinematicism in the lungs and in the stench of dying that collapsed from the sky and wrapped itself around him, in torque. The man with the moustache saved him, he spluttered a sea water filled thankyou and later on wondered if how he knew he was under there. Nearly drowning. Not drowned.
Phase 3 - Lego pieces
His daddy came home and soon began to play with his Lego. The boy was a bit of a bastard-child but he played nicely this time. Daddy made a car or truck and then did things parents do. Little boy kept the toy for many weeks. Months. Daddy was going to die. He wanted daddy's toy to stay with him.
He kept the toy therefore. Daddy didnât die though. The boy always had awful premonitions of death of close family members. They had neck cancer, tumours and everything.
Phase 4 -
Fuck off.