While she was traveling through time at a different rate than the rest of the Universe, her world was interpenetrated by a being who seemed to be of similar classification. Which was odd for her because, she had not seen, or would not see one of her own kind since/until the far future. Her response was to give him a modicum of sloppy drunken kisses on the dance floor of a sweaty nightclub while sliding her hand down his pants when she thought no-one was around. This was the first time, in a very long time, that she had felt a heart beat. This was the first time, in a very long time that she knew she was alive.
A carefully curated collection of thoughts were displayed in her recesses while she pretended not to notice his daydreams projected onto the wall. Could he see her intellectualizing her perversions, she wondered? In an attempt to create tangibility out of the shortness of breath he had inspired, she whispered softly in his ear, “I want it in my mouth…”.
How profound.
It was then that the tesseract folded onto itself before expanding and she found it, inside of her mouth indeed. Inside of her mouth and all the way into the back of her gagging wet throat, where she was thrilled to give him kisses much sloppier than those she had given him on the dance floor. He lovingly destroyed her face with violence and saliva until she no longer had thoughts of her own. Her body, desperate for his sex, acted on its own accord, and her brain became a silent retrospective of teachings by Soto Zen Priest, Shunryu Suzuki.
The Films of Guy Bourdin: a personal history.
Tim Buckley - Sweet Surrender
I made you a picture.
She often spent too much time telling people all the parts of herself that she probably shouldn’t. Night after night, she logged long hours in front of fireplaces or atop bar-stools the world over, confessing her startling memories of sex, drugs, and anorexia to strangers while clutching white-knuckled-tightly to stems of wineglasses-Always empty, always full. Upon making new acquaintances, this was her mysterious tradition, her frightening routine.
Every terrible thing she had ever done, she would gladly pour into the soul of another. How could she not know that these dark secrets should be locked away? Why did she never tell people the interesting things about herself that actually mattered? The real puzzle pieces that created the picture of who she was? Somehow she always found it easier to self-deprecate than aggrandize.
The things she kept for herself, like the extent of her academic achievement, were tucked away in dusty bins in the complex compartments of her mind. Treated as painful recollections, whispered quietly only while rocking in corners of closets with hands held to ears…these would be the things that some might consider accomplishment, and yet, she was oddly ashamed.
To hear her tell it, one would think that her honest belief was that she had never done anything (of a positive nature) of interest in her entire existence.
She claimed that she was searching to one day create the things that mattered…but what we all knew as truth, was this:
A brain does not matter to a girl whose only desire is to be beautiful.
