Finale (iii)

The page has been blank for three weeks, yet somehow the ink of the T from the pen [added: stolen or gifted from a casino one Christmas] doesn’t offer any notion of comfort. There are two girls on the table adjacent to me, the one with the [removed: longer hair] [a: Chemistry Society hoodie] from time to time slams her hands down on the table which creates a wave of stale air that makes the hairs at the edge of my [a: peripheral] vision sway in apathy. She’s just done it again. Twice. I can’t look at them anymore or I’ll.

In the hope of inspiration my sight rests on the blue purple of the Ribena bottle [a: which wobbles slightly when I cough].

NO ADDED SUGAR BLACKCURRANT JUICE DRINK.
NO ADDED SUGAR BLACKCURRANT JUICE DRINK.
NO ADDED SUGAR BLACKCURRANT JUICE DRINK.

There are 10 minutes left of my lunch break. A few months ago I tried to learn [a: to play] the ukulele and watched some videos online before putting Ruby at the bottom of my wardrobe and [r: never looking at her again] [a: allowing dust to settle in her gaping mouth hole]. In college I tried to draw, and was successful in creating stick men with amusing and melancholy speech-bubbles which I don’t understand the references to anymore. I used to write [a: online] by turning nothing into something, before realising that something is always [a: essentially] nothing, beneath fuzzy felt statues and.

I read the page again later [a: at the station] and felt dismay that there was no real [r: reason] [a: opportunity] to include [a: how] the blue of my Grandad’s eyes [a: matched so precisely to his sister and brother], the thought that the sliding train doors would slice so delightfully slice were blades attached, or [r: how intense the self-loathing became in the mornings] [a: how time spent in the bath faithfully correlated to the intensity of self-loathing]; mostly however I was disappointed that the disappointment almost made me forget about the tiny holes forming in dead and burning flesh, almost. The next train to arrive at Platform 1 will be the 17:48 to.

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About Anna

Author of the Insanity Aquarium. Current fears include time as a concept, the squishiness of my right eyeball, and not being able to open this jar.
This entry was posted in Darkness and tagged , , , . Bookmark the permalink.

One Response to Finale (iii)

  1. Anne Schilde says:

    I love the something is essentially nothing! After all, underneath the words, isn’t the page [a: essentially] still blank?

    Like

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