You had this Grandfather; he had this gun.
Somewhere, in the between, you divorced your own promiscuous mind, ending that meddlesome marriage of thought and body. You began by inviting Lamia into your head, into your patterns. She slithered and shifted her weight, placing her eyes on the bureau next to your clock. You feigned sleep, she wailed into her blindness, a mournful duet, coercing the dead, coaxing them, biding the night, knowing the most cunning of hunter makes little comparison of one kill to another, ascertaining the wonder of each lies solely in the amorality of indifference.
You had this Grandfather; he had this taste for hemlock; he had this commitment to hari-kari.
A theatre on a Monday afternoon is a solitary spot, you sit, back against wall, listening to the hum and clack of the projector motor, the click of film over sprocket, watching light stream a ray of dust, just above you, setting loose your wayward thoughts, let them dally here and there. A woman of obesity wedges herself into a seat along the aisle, lifting and spreading a curtain of alabaster hair about her shoulders, she releases a string of conversation into the room. She is shushed from a dark corner, where a hacking crackles, into a cough, dry and angry. Pictures flicker on screen, shape changing width and depth, story pours itself an identity, forgets its name, stopping midsentence
You had this Grandfather; he had this duty; he had this seppuku.
Childhood is nothing more than a trap;
it means to hurt when swallowed.
Proust is My Co-Pilot 