She was an older woman, he had begun to find her charming, and was on the brink of finding her thoroughly A PERSON, in a single view.
He began to feel that he was complete in a space where he was un-netted,
freedom.
He was becoming warm, and in this sunset montage in his consciousness, when he was simultaneously preparing for a fall, he learns she has consumption, and he feels a reaction of being unequivocally stymied.
He is so very terrified, and he was convinced this was the same terror as before he knew that fact, and he is so very terrified, he scarcely indulges in sadness. He fears.
He cannot CONCEPTUALIZE love, he cannot think of being in love with her. He runs away, never to see her again, and marries a provincial flapper, and her name is Emily. He tells everyone he loves Emily very much. He lets all see his display, as the UN-permeated dandy. The small circular space of darkness, trailing behind him like a stray cat, the impetus, is rendered an empty room -- the kind one passes by in an abandoned mansion, it's blank, you'll never know, you just pass by.
When you are in complete fear that a certain impetus will rip through the construction of the self, sexuality becomes mysterious.
It is a story like The Scarlet Ibis, something that seems to ride out, like a carriage in morning sunlight, upon something jovial and then faces a reality of death. A childish trust, a fondness, becomes an unfathomable poignant suspension.
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annaxmalina
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