| Maybe. Probably. |
[Nov. 3rd, 2018|05:23 pm] |
There's just the humming of the electricity lines and the crickets in the night. The city noise far away, scraping of metal, teeth grinding and muffled cries of somebody I just met. Maybe an animal in the darkness, eyes shining yellow staring at the headlight and everything just moves on its own in the wind, but see, out here it's nice. There's a pub where everyone just goes to because apart from the smell of tires rubbing against heated tar and the hellish noise coming from the factory that sometimes sounds like a marching band of sad gnomes, there's nothing important, really. And everyone has run out of jokes, at least no one is laughing anymore or maybe I never had a sense of humour, you see. Probably. Maybe. It got really quiet. And everyone has locked their doors, modems hissing in a soft choir with the fridges, and the spluttering of the sewerage, and the beeps and the buzzes and the ticking and the crieking and the snoring on and on and on into another circle of hell.
Just another bump in the dark when you were somewhat asleep. It's nothing. Probably. Maybe. There's nothing behind the curtains, honestly, see. It's just the dream you were having of the town and the pub and the marching band of the sad gnomes and the buzzing and the crieking. Don't look. It's just you. Probably. Maybe. And then there's the part where nobody is laughing anymore, but I think it's because they never had a sense of humour, you see. Vertebrae softly breaking apart, warm, sticky bubbles gathering in small pools for their own little adventure and the world goes quiet, as if the rolling cameras and the lights suddently went out of commision. The buzzing and crieking and humming and ticking and beeping in that one circle of hell. It stops. The curtain is closed and the sky is dark and quiet and there's maybe a stray cat somewhere. Probably. Maybe, but it's oh so nice here. |
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