Charles Darwin Looks Down At Her And Her Isotopes

What you’ll never know is that…

And she starts writing, cursor blinking on the seventh line of a half abandoned notebook. Dreams merge kleptomaniacally at focal points where sleep is the fulcrum, insomnia – the key. Words suddenly start drooping and wilting in a jaundiced quarter plate. There lies in abundance, a penny-rich lie. She wonders about the efficacy of the hyphen in the previous line. Her thoughts are sometimes as insignificant and as futile as this.

Gulp. Gulp. Gulp.

She's reinventing time travel in words. Her forty[sic]. Miss Mondegreen.

Miniature. Such a profound word for a world so tiny. Almost a Taj Mahal. The ‘n’ could be a tomb, a mausoleum flanked by the two 'I's as minarets. Life is all about balance and then it gets shorter. If you see what you saw then the game gets over in a jiffy. Sometimes, she can feel veins growing like roots in her body; tentacles in her brain, stemming a new thought, planting an emotion, then uprooting it. Just like that. She's living her life in recess, in intermission. Some of her is bound to spill over in the dark, under the seat, where no one can see. In her prescription there is no cure for silence.

Charles Darwin Looks Down At Her And Her Isotopes

But he doesn't want abstract. He wants a story. He wants eccentricity, lunacy, tears and cyanide. He wants names, wounds and epitaphs. He wants the when and the how. He wants to put his finger in the spot that bled and watch it fester. He wants to see it multiply. He wants to see her cry.

Creep.

Don’t turn around. She is standing there, in the polka-dotted dress with blood-shot black eyes, behind the door he forgot to close. And, she is looking at you. Now.

See-saw, See- saw. See- saw.