She shakes her head almost violently, her eyes directed down toward the white candle and the cold, wet glass. “I don’t believe,” she says, “in that compromise-and-settling bullshit. You have to give yourself up. Complete self-annihilation.”
In the air above them, some love song is flittering about. It scoots easily through blue strings of light and expertly around an exposed ventilator shaft. A common love song, a Top-40 love song. I can’t decide which.
He looks up at it, watches and smiles.
“You’re mocking me?” she asks quite seriously.
“No,” he says, “I’m smiling.”
“At what?”
“At the song.”
She looks up, searches about, gets a hold of it, and begins to sing along.
In the air above them, some love song is flittering about. It scoots easily through blue strings of light and expertly around an exposed ventilator shaft. A common love song, a Top-40 love song. I can’t decide which.
He looks up at it, watches and smiles.
“You’re mocking me?” she asks quite seriously.
“No,” he says, “I’m smiling.”
“At what?”
“At the song.”
She looks up, searches about, gets a hold of it, and begins to sing along.
2 comments:
stop frontin. we both know that the top-40 song is A-YO Technology by 50 Cent. anyway, what the fuck is this?! why am i the only fool posting on your blog? your genius deserves more than this.
>your genius deserves more than this.<
That's what I've been saying. What the fuck do I do this for, if not for the comments?
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