This is what happens when you go to a gig with a pen
The details about Nat Johnson are, she's been feeling ill and has taken drugs that have made her feel funny.
She's wearing a blue-net ballgown, but downstairs she was wrapped in a dark woolen overcoat, anonymous. At her feet is the same high-balled half-pint of some blackcurrant concoction she was sipping without a straw but with one eyebrow raised.
Her fringe is split to reveal only her left eyebrow.
She wears a large amber pendant, suspended precisely a golden ratio above her neckline. When she forgets the words to a song, she says, 'Fuck,' as if there's an 'h' in it. When she's remembering the words to a song, she looks up and to the left, and then closes her eyes. She bites her lip during the loud ones.
Jeffrey's been taking photos of Nat from the front. He got in free because he knows the headline. The details about Jeffrey are, he has long, thin and yellow hair, tied back in a ponytail skewed to the left. His converse sneakers are the same colour as red crayons, and he takes digital photographs on the slow setting - flashflashflashFLASH.
Jeffrey came with Juliet. Juliet has a ring like a colossal bronze shell fragment just exploded onto her middle finder. She has a purple trench-coat belted up to the tightest notch and she giggles whenever Jeffrey takes her picture. Under the coat she's wearing a horizontal-striped stretch-top that perfectly accentuates her 36D-cups. She chews the nail of her index finger when she thinks she's thinking and her tights always match her headscarf. Juliet has brown roots under her yellow hair and is drinking water from the tap because they don't serve mineral water here.
The details on here are, there's an email stuck up next to the bar complaining about its clientelle. The barman has a hat like a Yorkshire/Baseball mongrel and is stingy with his blackcurrant.
That's it. There's also this for that game we're working on:
Here is our world, they say, scorched and shattered.
Once, they tell you, we could cross the ocean in half a day.
Once, they say, we touched the moon.
Once, they sigh, all this was grass.
They tell you, after three more years, you'll be able to tell the truth from the lies. And then they take off your blindfold.
There are millions of them: plumped and stacked and lined up in their neat little rows and columns and passageways. Clasped tight in leafed metal bonds. They whisper and hum in the pale white light. As the forge they protect cools them and lights them and keeps them safe, they sing.
Most of them only sing lies.
Some speak of war. Some speak of love. Some speak of animals long disappeared, who spoke themselves and had their own wars and their own loves.
Here is our world, they say, torched beyond recognition and spliintered into billions and billions of perfectly formed, spaced and justified words.
Assume everything you know from outside is true. And assume that it was us who once had the power to - create - these books. Everything else here is a labyrinth built to destroy you. The towered shelves on their oiled tracks and the tiny letters on their silken pages and the lights humming in the floor and the walls and the everything. Just pick up a thread, and follow it until it contradicts itself.
They say, keep the blindfold.
You can throw it away if you find anything.
She's wearing a blue-net ballgown, but downstairs she was wrapped in a dark woolen overcoat, anonymous. At her feet is the same high-balled half-pint of some blackcurrant concoction she was sipping without a straw but with one eyebrow raised.
Her fringe is split to reveal only her left eyebrow.
She wears a large amber pendant, suspended precisely a golden ratio above her neckline. When she forgets the words to a song, she says, 'Fuck,' as if there's an 'h' in it. When she's remembering the words to a song, she looks up and to the left, and then closes her eyes. She bites her lip during the loud ones.
Jeffrey's been taking photos of Nat from the front. He got in free because he knows the headline. The details about Jeffrey are, he has long, thin and yellow hair, tied back in a ponytail skewed to the left. His converse sneakers are the same colour as red crayons, and he takes digital photographs on the slow setting - flashflashflashFLASH.
Jeffrey came with Juliet. Juliet has a ring like a colossal bronze shell fragment just exploded onto her middle finder. She has a purple trench-coat belted up to the tightest notch and she giggles whenever Jeffrey takes her picture. Under the coat she's wearing a horizontal-striped stretch-top that perfectly accentuates her 36D-cups. She chews the nail of her index finger when she thinks she's thinking and her tights always match her headscarf. Juliet has brown roots under her yellow hair and is drinking water from the tap because they don't serve mineral water here.
The details on here are, there's an email stuck up next to the bar complaining about its clientelle. The barman has a hat like a Yorkshire/Baseball mongrel and is stingy with his blackcurrant.
That's it. There's also this for that game we're working on:
Here is our world, they say, scorched and shattered.
Once, they tell you, we could cross the ocean in half a day.
Once, they say, we touched the moon.
Once, they sigh, all this was grass.
They tell you, after three more years, you'll be able to tell the truth from the lies. And then they take off your blindfold.
There are millions of them: plumped and stacked and lined up in their neat little rows and columns and passageways. Clasped tight in leafed metal bonds. They whisper and hum in the pale white light. As the forge they protect cools them and lights them and keeps them safe, they sing.
Most of them only sing lies.
Some speak of war. Some speak of love. Some speak of animals long disappeared, who spoke themselves and had their own wars and their own loves.
Here is our world, they say, torched beyond recognition and spliintered into billions and billions of perfectly formed, spaced and justified words.
Assume everything you know from outside is true. And assume that it was us who once had the power to - create - these books. Everything else here is a labyrinth built to destroy you. The towered shelves on their oiled tracks and the tiny letters on their silken pages and the lights humming in the floor and the walls and the everything. Just pick up a thread, and follow it until it contradicts itself.
They say, keep the blindfold.
You can throw it away if you find anything.