An ant considers himself.
Alas
a piece of peace. Not to be.
Something's always wrong with him, that limp monsieur. Something crept up into his ear this time. A bug. A woman with secrets to whisper as tiny stilettos. She takes up self-styled residence in his aural cavity, and slowly etches her onomatopoeic name on his eardrum. A coy mistress as afflictions come.
Sebastian stands out on the street and draws a cigarette. Oh that wonderful panacea for the chic and the dying. He sucks in the gray and expels the gray. It floats away like a twisted corpse, his own no less, with vine-strangled limbs and wings. His eyes spy at the corners, half-expecting a demon to leap forth and drag it away. Where are the dogs? he thinks. They'd love to see this. A supernatural marvel appealing to their most basic canine instincts.
He mutters an apprehensive "la vie est jolie" under his breath, afraid that they might steal it away from him. He's been doing it all month. He does it to the mirror in the shower too. He cracks odd smiles at it, flashes a full grin sometimes. He's sure the person on the other side of the looking glass is quite terrified but obliges for that very same reason. He's a complete loon. Half-delirious and half-expecting a flea to murder him with a kiss on the scalp. "Too weird to live, too rare to die," the Duke might say.
On nights like this, Sebastian ponders about the state of things. An obsession. A little habit of counting to make sure one counts in life. Does he? Will he ever?
Stay tuned. He won't make it to the second season.
a piece of peace. Not to be.
Something's always wrong with him, that limp monsieur. Something crept up into his ear this time. A bug. A woman with secrets to whisper as tiny stilettos. She takes up self-styled residence in his aural cavity, and slowly etches her onomatopoeic name on his eardrum. A coy mistress as afflictions come.
Sebastian stands out on the street and draws a cigarette. Oh that wonderful panacea for the chic and the dying. He sucks in the gray and expels the gray. It floats away like a twisted corpse, his own no less, with vine-strangled limbs and wings. His eyes spy at the corners, half-expecting a demon to leap forth and drag it away. Where are the dogs? he thinks. They'd love to see this. A supernatural marvel appealing to their most basic canine instincts.
He mutters an apprehensive "la vie est jolie" under his breath, afraid that they might steal it away from him. He's been doing it all month. He does it to the mirror in the shower too. He cracks odd smiles at it, flashes a full grin sometimes. He's sure the person on the other side of the looking glass is quite terrified but obliges for that very same reason. He's a complete loon. Half-delirious and half-expecting a flea to murder him with a kiss on the scalp. "Too weird to live, too rare to die," the Duke might say.
On nights like this, Sebastian ponders about the state of things. An obsession. A little habit of counting to make sure one counts in life. Does he? Will he ever?
Stay tuned. He won't make it to the second season.