Monday, 26 November 2012

You leave the store, fresh air, outside. Depressed, hunched over, eyes eating hungrily at the burning distance. Here we are again, that same burning distance - those same oil fired trees reaching up to where the horizon leans down. You can feel a tightly clenched shopping bag in your right hand... it's cream-yellow thrush colour mixing with the orange of the sunlight and the red of your hand to formulate a full gradient of phoenix colour. The woman walking next to you doesn't have anything to say. The car park is quiet. The last character in the consumer outlet store's name forms a dark black curve upon this one colour clear sky... A last trolly dances seductively in the eternal light, a woman tugs at her jumper and removes it. The trolley objectifies it's prey. A small screwed up sheet drifts sluggishly across the view. Black character's are all you can see in this light and luckily as with the store, all is printed in this exact colour; THIS ARE ALWAYS STORIES AT END WORLD. The language is wrong, you know it, the writer must have known it. Sadist. Sat alone in his bedroom, hand in his pants printing all kinds of non-grammatically correct sentences and pasting them sperm-coated into the evening breeze. Another woman has just passed on the left, a fragment of blue cinema shrieks out of her poised lips. You wonder what you are still doing in this car park having realized the blood supply to your hand has long since been cut off - your hand now forming a streak of squid ink void blue against the orange sky. It is very beautiful. Your weeks supply of chicken hot pot noodle did this. You wonder why there are so many women leaving the supermarket with the big black "O" at this time of night and why they are so turned on. Thinking of pleasure... your eyes drift back again to the screwed up paper, it's now on it's side mating with another piece of the trash. You haven't eaten and it's getting late. 

I saw War again. War had lost it's outline.