Space is Shrinking

[dayonfire]

Indeed, it was claustrophobia that befell him now. No lunch in gaunt frame, the rum worked a magic deep into the mytochondria of his soul. The place was truly small. It was a wonder he could breathe. Though situated deftly around the corner from the rest of the world, it was still too short a bartender walk for him to lift the bottle of Crown Royal he hoped would accompany him on the rest of the day’s journey abroad. He would have to wait. Waiting were the walls that enclosed him. Wait a minute more. Wait for the point where so called maturity allows for freedom. Wait for acts of unspeakable enthusiasm to be applauded by the world, acts that in him attained mythic proportion in his late Symbolist heart. He wants to call his deepest friend, but waits. A soul so close to his that words are nearly a comic redundancy. There are always things to postpone, like Chapter II of an epic friendship. The stuff of invisible legend. Some things needing to age underground - not Kimchee but Saison. Ah, you see how this narrative has changed in quickness and weight? Calvino could have considered it as a Memo for the Next Millenium, but it’s not strong enough. That, and he died. Some notions become so sacred to those poet-types, like our son of Grendel by immaculate misconception, that they can only be summoned to the surface in masturbatory reveries or bad decisions. He does not have the number to make that fatal mistake. A Saison drunk too soon is a tragedy.

What he really wants now is something silly, something to repeat later ad nauseum
until it becomes a camp act of idiocy generating its own system of importance.
It powers the world, but in a way only seen when the act is concluded and
seen from more sober vantage points the saner person nods to.
Still “we assign its passions without guile” he once
wrote in a Victorian fit of foreshadowed
relevance. He wants it in a way the
half-bottle teases him not
eight feet away.

What now, he mutters.

The waitress looks at her watch.

What now

She has seven hours and fifteen minutes left.

What

The patrons entering ask obvious questions,
talk in ever smaller circles well up until game time.

He glances up to notice the plain buttress of wall and
roofbeam, cannot help but think cathedrals
prove Gaudi’s heart was but a
fragile glass
of light.