Blood on the Bathroom Tiles

Posted: September 10, 2014 in Uncategorized

There’s a thing that happens when you look at your own vision staring back at you, making faces beneath the ancient mask of liquid, the reflective wobbling of the skeletal form to warp and distort it into the fattened, melting shape of what never would be made real in this plane, what the Gods can only see and touch and laugh and make jokes about that we are unable to hear. The lake washes in and out in this pattern, like clothes on a washboard, like an ox pulling cart in the hardest wind. Here we are all, lined up for croissants, making small talk at the viewing and trying not to mention the dead elephant in the other room. The coffee is the wrong side of room temperature and the scones are all rock hard. Nobody wants to be there, least of all the corpse. But here we are all, staring at the rippling reflection of the body of water beneath us as the coffin sinks to the bottom.

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