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A trash can on canvas board, painted with the insane laughs of a mannequin. His eyes lost, wandering, searching for a lost letter of static confinements, but only left with his identity of a skeletal mask. Lost letter of love. Days past to night as the raven of his life story yelled quietly in his ear, nevermore. His life felt like a freak show selling three dozen tickets a night, they don’t understand, they don’t understand. The director in his head told him he’s due two days from now, but the film that lay on the table (between green canned energy drinks and half-wrapped cupcakes) wait to be finished. Brain fried like the forgotten kaleidoscope many shapes, many colors, and blank, incomplete. A complete genius, a mad man if you will. But they didn’t know it. They believed he’d drive himself insane, stuff his face full of crazed television, or stick his finger in an outlet to see if he could really electrocute himself, drive himself dead.
Any way of ridding the world of unhappiness, go back in time and change something. Too bad the time machine was broken, too back it couldn’t happen, never say never. He dedicated his life to solving the impossible, doing the impossible (not only sitting on his butt chowin’ down on cigarettes and drinking cold coffee), and telling himself he’d do it, do it and be successful. Love and peace.
When he didn’t show up on the corner of John and Mark, at seven on the dot, the greedy thugs full of dead brain cells and rotten grilled teeth left not worrying about what he might have, forget the audition. Chicago was his destination but the cracks on the wall and the empty webs in the corner finally left him alone, sitting the dusty couch, laughing. So much for five year long dreams.
The table and empty cans had been untouched by human hands. Just the bugs crawled all over the cluttered stuff. They walked in the sunny gloomy room expecting the worst. Piles of coffee stained, cigarette burned, paper. The writing was quite hard to read (written in blue or black ink). The smell was unbearable. He had let himself go. The youngest, a girl, walked back out the front door, crying. He let her, for he understood that the smell and knowing that he let himself rot (inside and out) not just showed when you saw his pale face, but when you walked into the front door and realized you hadn’t quite expected this; just the worst. Her sobs echoed like they were in a cool cave. He didn’t like this and that she wanted to keep everything she could, including the house, which was a mistake. But he let it go. Maybe she would change her mind and tell him that it could go through probate and everything can be given to the needy or simply thrown away. But not before he got his The Velvet Underground CD back. The hallway was packed with scraps of metal and more paper, among them blue prints. Blue prints of what? What could he possible be doing with blue prints? They weren’t for houses but some strange object that grabbed his hair and shook him till he needed to find all of them. Every single one. They seemed familiar, but where from?
She stood by the couch when he entered the living room. Mascara ran in small dark rivers down under her eyes, some leading to her nose from when she held her head down. “Don’t you hear it?” She whispered. Could she be talking about the buzzing that came from the flies that mourned their dead colleges?
“Hear what Kenya?” He replied. She just walked back out the door. He looked around trying to see if there might me anything that she would like to take back to their mothers, a picture or card, but the clutter controlled the house. He picked up one of saliva rotten energy drinks and tossed it to one of the big over flowed black trash bags. Even though he knew it was useless. He walked out the front door. Along with the blue prints that had some importance, yet non-at all.
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