“Cliff top statue shrouded by night, glowing slightly death white alabaster under moonlight, slightly inclined to the west, facing a lacerating Atlantic wind, and the orange rust dust and the red brick dust and the grey bone dust of life riven from its pores, driven out back east, far away, further away. Dried out salt encrusted tear ducts facing the ice cold migraine gale, all the putrid, death smell robed deals have been riven from its pores, driven out back east, far away, further away. I feel myself slow motion still further westward and leap away from my atrophied pores, from all these moribund words, further away than ever before, left it all back there, blown far away forevermore into the waning eastern horizon, into nothing. Dead, I’m leaving for joy’s subdivision, section nine A, the pleasures of inflicting pain, that’s cool.... Cool, that’s what you kids say, isn’t it?”
“Too many words, you pompous bastard....” Spat back bloodily The Pretty Girl, suspended by her wrists with rope from a hook in a beam in the curved ceiling of the crypt, desperately, agonizingly fighting for breath.
She’d leapt.
“I think you, mmm, perhaps er, just need this, eh?” And he slammed her inhaler down on the white, but rusting, metal work bench, next to the transformer. “How would you have expressed it then, child? Could you have done any better my dear, mmm?”
She could and she did, somewhere deep in her head....
“I stand facing the wind and life is being riven out of my pores. Facing the wind, all your sticky sweet death smell draped deals are being riven out of my pores to far, far away, and I have leapt, and I will fly into nothing forevermore.”
She could and she had done, way better, with a choking sound from her throat, with an unsteady stare, so The Born Again Priest plugged The Pretty Girl into the mains again for one last time and, over the next hour or so, she slowly, but finally, soared into nothing forevermore.
“The moon looked down as the planet turned, what they did down there, well, it took some nerve.” A-Soma
