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3. Resentment

Come inside and fulfill me, Grace! I am waiting for a déjà vu, the coming of an age and a season of restoration. We will bloom to fall again; we will vanquish and stay subdued, for a moment though. Your gaze is about to take away my pain, but it isn’t you I am here to see. Wake up! It’s Cedar. We run into each other once a year. She would take me to her haven, fix me up and put me to sleep. I, being an ingrate, would wake up in tatters and become the tempest.

We meet again the following year. She is the perfect host, and I the perfect parasite. I should stop my ridiculous exhibition, the fostering of an outlandish demeanor and a lack of empathy. I want to stick around forever but I will be the end of you. I’ll cut you down in my sleep and write about my loss.

You believe in me. I am wrapped around, anointed, comforted and humored. I bloom forever with the rot tucked away where it can’t be seen. It can be felt though. I am the best side of myself.

The space around us has expanded. The cat reappears. There is a motif, a notion of self, freedom from guilt, futility, abhorrence and decadence. The foliage is receding; the purrs get low and distant; you’re turning gray while I write about my loss. I am my best premonition.

How we have changed in time! It is probably because of the fillers – the minutiae. Every one of you should be indicted; all but one is to blame. The world seems to be most unfair; the sangfroid is lost. I am dull. At that moment, you (Cedar) come inside to fulfill me. I close my eyes to be restored. Instead, you tell me who cut you down. Resentment!



"We were working together, we were exploring the concept of a dream within a dream. I kept pushing things, I wanted to go deeper and deeper, I wanted to go further. I just didn't understand the concept, that hours could turn into years down there, that we could get trapped so deep that when we....when we wound up on the shore of our own subconscious we lost sight of what was real. We created, we built a world for ourselves. We did that for years, we built our own world.

It wasn't so bad at first - feeling like gods. The problem was knowing that none of it was real. Eventually it just became impossible for me to live like that.

She had locked something away, something deep inside her. The truth that she'd always known but chose to forget. Limbo became her reality.
To wake up from that after...after years, after decades, to become old souls thrown back into youth like that. I knew something was wrong with her, but she just wouldn't admit it. Eventually she told me the truth, that she was possessed by an idea. This one very simple idea that changed everything. That our world wasn't real, that she needed to wake up to come back to reality. That order to get back home we had to kill ourselves."



My love
Your face and your smile
Your melancholy and your twirl
Lift me out of my bed, my sunshine
My special someone

My star
You're distant and ethereal
Perfection like no other
That I could only gaze and yearn
And speak of to others

My lover
Is that you?
You're my lover?
I must be dreaming
It couldn't be true
Oh, but you're breathing

In front of me, there
Stay put and don't leave
Now I'm not very good
But I'll try and improve
Until it'll do

I tried and I craved
Of something even greater
I think there's confusion
I can be even better

Now, what is this thing
This thought, my obsession
You're good, said she
But I think not, my lady

He would never sleep
And later, wouldn't eat
What did he do then?
You're really good, said she

He still wouldn't settle
In the perfection of her ways
He smiled when she did
When she didn't, he'd rot

He rusted in the rain
Intermittent or persistent
He ruined himself
Every time they were distant

In the end
He was dull
He was dark, nothing else
He'd smile in his sickness
Which came over time
And took over all the rhymes

I have gone insane
I only wanted to see you happy
The once bright light
In your eyes and your ears
And your hair, everywhere
I killed it, a demon
That's me, a lizard
A lizard and a demon
Clinging and wet
And nothing good about me
I meant no harm
But my ways are pathetic
So go on
My love
My obsession
My bliss
You are a star
My days are over


A Walk Around Boston

 Day Dreams 

Not an Early Bird

50s and Overture

Copley Square

Yellow and Vintage

A Dramatic Turn

Out of the Woods

A Frozen Reverie

Snow and Spires

Dingy Passes

Crystal Lounge

Lacrosse in Early Spring

Lois Lone

7 A.M. Boston

One of them West Villages


2. Morose

Oh, look! It’s daytime. The birds are tweeting, the sun is upon us and the sky is a clear blue. We have a beach in town. Let’s go there, because the water is turquoise, the sand is not wet, visitors are scanty and we’ll have a private lair. We will be amorous; we will be cruel and come back as florid individuals. Behold! A docile cat. What are the chances? It makes a low sound, and asks me to adopt a less hurried approach. The inane creature had an oval face, radiant countenance, purred intermittently, swooshed, flinched, winced, ebbed and peered at me with a twisted yet ingratiating semblance. I pondered at its antics resentfully, which belied the impression it set out to make on a hypnotized, pitiful conversationalist. I am serenity.

The cat has been ridden. Il est bien fait! Monsieur Causeur. I strode decisively on the plain, lustrous road draped in my beige mackintosh. I felt the onset of slight fever, the popping of nerves somewhere around my cerebellum, the throes of a cynic forever hearkening the platitudinous ramble of an obtuse audience. M'épargner de cette fausseté, as I do not intend to humor your alacrity. Wither, come about, shudder, blink incessantly, bring me my coat. It may only be gray, beige; no, just black. I am Aisen Schuster – the intensifier.

Nightfall! The iridescence of sign boards up and about, of richly painted Vipers – cars and vipers; the plethora of plethora leaves me ruminating, whimsical - non-sense Causeur. I pulled over following the exit quite fascinated by the prospect of an uninhibited stroll (again), up the meek, yielding, patched hillside and down after; a privy with its shiny knobs, truckers engrossed in inconsequential blabbering, flagrant murderers with their furtive tones. Two eggs, tuna and beer – I am one of them. The murderer seated transverse to me is a blue-eyed haggard with the smell of a pink, pubescent urchin, a grotesquely isosceles nose placed above his lump of a fisted mouth. The deplorable setting, faint lighting, a detestable waitress in pink - it was an overall demure affair, and then she walks in. I am morose.


1. Revelation

I am shrouded in a dark sheet, my vision is blurred and my mind does not intend to wander beyond you. It stays put and a routine is gone over and over again. My paranoid mind hangs on to a position of solitude, etches a motif of subtle movements, whispers, delectable intertwining of our fingers and then puts you in my lap. Stay there! Do not move, and do not ask to be moved. Look straight like an innocent child, let me stare at you from the back, side and then deep into your brown eyes. You don't make me uncomfortable like other people do, even when our stares meet. I demand a utopia everyday, and everyday I want something more. I want to meet you, haunt you in your dreams and reveries, console you in real life after you present to me a less than vivid description of your subconscious - secretly gleeful about my presence in there. You are the thing I sniff from a sheet of paper, the thoughts that come after and the person who acts as my figurative mother in the afterglow. Everything is you!

I am inside you now, and you are the dark sheet presenting me comfort and character. I (Red) however, would rather be a cornice. A cornice! Do everything for me, do everything to me and come back in my lap. There is no point if I reveal myself to you, because I do that all the time, but you still understand my problem. I wonder if you will grow exhausted one day, as I am not that good. You are beautiful and unconventional, the kind of ineffable charm that doesn't come by often and possessed ever so rarely. I am not asked to change by you - the Scarlet - and a mere parity impresses you less. I am over you now, am I really? I won't tell. You are clearly loquacious, but I will be treated differently. I am special now, and you are Purple. I would dive into you, on the surface and deep. I would fly over you, low and distant. Come to me now, and turn me desperate. Turn around and walk back. I will not grant you space to breathe, so that you have to suck the air out of me. Do everything I want, the Scarlet.


A Long Wait

This boy I knew - Volodja - used to live around the corner. His house was just a few blocks away from mine; and more often than not, he'd be outside playing with a frisbee. Volodja loved that thing, perhaps he was obsessed with it and the quality that it could fly, if only momentarily. We happened to be friends for a brief period, and it was during the phase that we had lunch together one time - his girlfriend, him and I. We inhaled plenty of gum during the day, passed out on a deserted-factory floor and woke up feeling cold an hour or a couple later. Those were depressing times. I realize it only now that I look back upon it. Retrospection is not the only thing pushing me to admit, the prolonged nature and constant recurrence make me fully understand the somber nature of the situation. It of course is very convenient on my part to write about it secretly hoping for deliverance, for I even more stealthily despise the whole idea. The ambivalence isn’t even natural, it is the creation of an ever so petty thought hoping for a grandiose arrival – to whichever nook or cranny. To be perfectly clear, all of it makes no sense.

I listened intently whilst these words ushered from underneath the magnificent lips of Katya - “All good things to those who wait”.