**As published in the Purple Haut-Parleur
Languidly stowed in the armchair at the corner of the room, under the old lamp he once got from the flea market, turning the pages with his hand bearing cigarette while Hamed Sino ‘s voice caressing the air particles filling the room, seeking a life he never had but always felt more in tune with.
He parted the company of his consciousness for what seemed to be a moment, to find the smoke of his cigarette petrified in an ubiquity like a still shot taken from a film noire. Should he freak out, a distant reminiscence fondled his sight and a sigh started to collect deep in his soul.
Meanwhile a totally new rational externality to his life came into being, and what seemed to be his presence felt like a distant fading memory of a life once lived.
A howl resonated his being into countless pieces, shimmering the echo into nothingness as his eyes undisclosed in silence.
Totally blithe to it all the music was still wining over the beats of silence lying in the wait.
One thought on “Waning..”
The distant rims of the world.and of the firmament seemed to be a division in time no.less than a division in matter. The sombre stretch of rounds.and hollows seemed to rise and meet the evening gloom.in pure sympathy the heath exhaling darkness as rapidly.as the heavens precipitated it. Every night.its Titanic form seemed to await something but it.had waited thus unmoved during so many centuries .through the crises of so many things that it could only.be imagined to await one last crisis–the final overthrow…It was a spot which returned upon the memory of those who.loved it with an aspect of peculiar and kindly congruity.Smiling champaigns of flowers and fruit hardly do this .for they are permanently harmonious only with an existence.of better reputation as to its issues than the present.