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.
