Tue, 26 Jan 2010 00:01:06 -0500

He sat on the floor, two feet away from the long bare legs that reached a point where flesh twisted into the curves and shapes of a callow female. "Look, look," he cried as something winked between the ink and the crinkles of the old fantasy story. He reached out and placed his warm little hand on her knee - pushing back and forth the way a mother would rock a baby to sleep, but the sitter was no baby, and she was more consumed with reality embedded in binary stages between the mental and metal. "Look, look - looook," he said once more as the story came to life and hopped, hopped, bounced across the page as if the individual letters were not words but of the greener pastures. As he kept shaking the sitter's leg, he reached out with his other hand to touch the fumbling rabbit. "Look, look, look...." his voice faded in the distance, and when the girl looked up, the warm hand was gone, and the boy of three was mentioned in the fairy tales. In a paragraph of its own, the words "Look, look, look!" became immortally known.

Muse 1: Broken Keys

Sat, 23 Jan 2010 18:01:36 -0500

(via loveyourchaos)

They droningly plunked with a tune like broken teeth, like broken teeth. I don’t think I ever noticed that they were out of tune, out of tune; I just noticed they were brown and crooked - kind of like yours after you started smoking, cussing. Truthfully, touching this piano may be the closest I will ever get to your drugged, dead lips.

dearskye's Open Salon Blog

Muse 1: Broken Keys