#glitchiisms

[neitherborrowernorlender]

starter for glitchiisms

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After dark, Paris still bustled.  The life it bustled with, however, was not the sort to be lauded or praised or addressed in letters back home.  Hair disheveled and hastily brushed back into place, Laertes left the street of brothels, back into the city proper, praised by scholars and poets.  Wandering wandering.  He knew he should return to his studies and the University.  But no, instead he wandered.

[fuuturisms-blog]

I. he is twenty three and slightly drunk and his fingers are trailing down highways of her thighs they're tussling and rolling in sheets, he goes to lay back, let his head haze, let his breath out he watches the light flicker across her skin. she's gone. II. somewhere, he is twenty five. her hair is shorter, her eyes are wilder; she looks as though she spit out acid through the slit in her teeth and fought in a war no one'd seen ( HE DOESN'T KNOW WHERE SHE WENT,     BUT HE THOUGHT BETTER ON ASKING HER TO STAY. ) "hey." III. he thinks he can see her in constellations at night & he likes to pretend she's mouthing sorry or that she's at least here, because it's hard to wax sweet nothings to a bunch of stars. still, somehow he can't find himself to be bitter. IV. he is thirty one. his beard is in place & they say he looks more like his father now more than ever. her hair is blonde. she doesn't look a day over twenty-ish. she has a motorcycle and likes sour apple blow pops. "y'look like you're gettin' old," she says to him. "aged like fine wine." V. he gets her out of the city & into the dark of his room one last time when he's twenty three again. she stays all of thirty minutes. VI. he likes to pretend she says she's sorry. he's glad his schedule's open.