Chaos, In Theory (3/?)
You’re not sure when you began to hate them so virulently, when this stopped being the real world. You look out over the crowded sterile, tastefully decorated ballroom and try to contain your utter contempt for their plasticine artifice You detest the chronic vacancy behind their eyes, their deconstructed artificial awareness delineated by designers and Paul Mitchell, their world convenient and inorganic, like gas logs.
There is no fire in their life, and you’re tempted to burn it all down just for a change in pace.
You think of the man, if he can be called a man, shackled in your basement, and your fingers twitch around the delicate stem of your champagne flute. You’ve always known that he understands intimately the draw of fire and destruction, but you’re not sure when you began to understand his contempt.
You itch to introduce a little chaos to the carefully ordered scene before you, throw a stone to scatter the flock of stool pigeons polluting your presence, disturbing the sanctity of your mourning moral righteousness with their incessant, vapid chatter.
The insipid blonde on your left shrieks, and you realize that half of your glass’s twisting stem is imbedded in your palm. You open your hand, slowly, clinically and the delicate tinkle of crystal shattering on marble splits the air in the suddenly quiet room.
It may be the best sound you’ve heard all evening.
There is no fire in their life, and you’re tempted to burn it all down just for a change in pace.
You think of the man, if he can be called a man, shackled in your basement, and your fingers twitch around the delicate stem of your champagne flute. You’ve always known that he understands intimately the draw of fire and destruction, but you’re not sure when you began to understand his contempt.
You itch to introduce a little chaos to the carefully ordered scene before you, throw a stone to scatter the flock of stool pigeons polluting your presence, disturbing the sanctity of your mourning moral righteousness with their incessant, vapid chatter.
The insipid blonde on your left shrieks, and you realize that half of your glass’s twisting stem is imbedded in your palm. You open your hand, slowly, clinically and the delicate tinkle of crystal shattering on marble splits the air in the suddenly quiet room.
It may be the best sound you’ve heard all evening.