West of Nothing

Posted: December 30, 2015 in Uncategorized

The baroque masters, the bards of rococo, the pianissimos of art deco, all huddled underneath one umbrella, all housed in one commune. Incessantly smoking and arguing with one another. Never sleeping. All hours of the day just noise and frustration and contempt and a wish to be alone. Close space. Breath bearing inward on every one of them, skin contact, a whistling nose, god forbid one who snores or smacks his lips as he eats the meager meal prepared in a kitchen by those who woke up and just understood the battle with their muse going on. Nothing productive from them today but sustenance. Theirs was the dirty work, the duty to simply stand aside and wonder if someone else would pick up the slack; might drop some crumb of inspiration that would lead to burnt eggs and pasta the consistency of wet tissue paper. A most miserable place to dwell, in the land of the artist.

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