J. R. Willerton
06-26-2011, 02:18 PM
A vignette I guess? I don't know terminology. I'm new here, hello.
Half an apple brown and half crisp green 'neath a soft exploding blue sky, cool sun, I sit twitching and twenty-one, not quite, almost, might not make it to, twenty-two. My conception of myself and the world round is hopelessly flawed at best, dismally, horrifically astute at worst. The changeling forever stranger dislikes eye contact mostly; sometimes walking by is a brutal contest of wills at the end of which I'm sent skittering off in a hypercharged state of nervosity, thoughts caught, strangulated by mean cold oblivious decent human beings.
Two packs of cigarettes and a meager portion of groceries (Please, sir?) and I continue with a minimum of discomfort, which is to say, much, but not intolerably much. Cigarettes make me think faster but less, one and a half loops of a circle and I hop to another, no spiraling idle torture, not much. I eat little, I might live frugally if not so dissolute, such an acolyte of impulse. They are not tokens to display in which I apathetically take pleasure, and of which I rail against a lack, but worlds into which I might escape, I might escape the crowbar eyes of the mildly curious, their polite smiles, my own strictly restrained abject thrashings at nothing, to no end.
Half an apple brown and half crisp green 'neath a soft exploding blue sky, cool sun, I sit twitching and twenty-one, not quite, almost, might not make it to, twenty-two. My conception of myself and the world round is hopelessly flawed at best, dismally, horrifically astute at worst. The changeling forever stranger dislikes eye contact mostly; sometimes walking by is a brutal contest of wills at the end of which I'm sent skittering off in a hypercharged state of nervosity, thoughts caught, strangulated by mean cold oblivious decent human beings.
Two packs of cigarettes and a meager portion of groceries (Please, sir?) and I continue with a minimum of discomfort, which is to say, much, but not intolerably much. Cigarettes make me think faster but less, one and a half loops of a circle and I hop to another, no spiraling idle torture, not much. I eat little, I might live frugally if not so dissolute, such an acolyte of impulse. They are not tokens to display in which I apathetically take pleasure, and of which I rail against a lack, but worlds into which I might escape, I might escape the crowbar eyes of the mildly curious, their polite smiles, my own strictly restrained abject thrashings at nothing, to no end.