Fumbling. Low lights. Thrumming music, more heartbeat than sound.
The strange sense that he (this kid, whoever he is) isn't getting anywhere. His hand is caught in Armand's shirt and his other hand is being held at the wrist, and they are pushed together, like gravity has tipped towards the wall that he has Armand against. Armand is taller (and stronger), and gazing at him with
something. Want? Pity? His eyes are crazy to stare into, fire-coal orange, twin lanterns that continue to burn in his mind's eye between each blink. He gets a hand behind his neck to try to pull him down
and can't. Unmoving. Something sharp beneath his chin, pushing his face aside.
"Human philosophy," Armand is saying, so quiet, but somehow easily heard in the riot of the establishment, "is often deeply flawed for being premised on the eventuality of death. To give meaning to life, there must be an end. And that everything a person does is in service to prepare or fend off that inevitability."
So what do you wanna do about it?
Ignored. "It's why I am fond of Sartre. His writings seemed unconcerned with this question, at least at times. To exist is to behold. To behold is to love. And love is nothing but an illusory celebration of that existence."
Let go of my arm—
"Rest."
The mind is still. They leave.
When the boy's hands are tied, he obediently has his arms held behind him. He sits into the open trunk and offers out his ankles, Armand diligently tying them too. Out here, in a pre-dawn haze, there are some more details to pick up. A kind of sharpness to Armand, a tense way of holding his face.
His makes eye contact with the kid, and seems to want to say something else. Maybe it's deliberate, showing off this glimmer of vulnerability, uncertainty, the desire nested in hesitation. Maybe Armand is only so good at curating a person's mind.
Instead, "I sometimes enjoyed our conversation," before the rest is submerged in deep blackness, which resolves into the humid interior of a car's trunk and the taste of saliva-soaked denim.
no subject
The strange sense that he (this kid, whoever he is) isn't getting anywhere. His hand is caught in Armand's shirt and his other hand is being held at the wrist, and they are pushed together, like gravity has tipped towards the wall that he has Armand against. Armand is taller (and stronger), and gazing at him with
something. Want? Pity? His eyes are crazy to stare into, fire-coal orange, twin lanterns that continue to burn in his mind's eye between each blink. He gets a hand behind his neck to try to pull him down
and can't. Unmoving. Something sharp beneath his chin, pushing his face aside.
"Human philosophy," Armand is saying, so quiet, but somehow easily heard in the riot of the establishment, "is often deeply flawed for being premised on the eventuality of death. To give meaning to life, there must be an end. And that everything a person does is in service to prepare or fend off that inevitability."
So what do you wanna do about it?
Ignored. "It's why I am fond of Sartre. His writings seemed unconcerned with this question, at least at times. To exist is to behold. To behold is to love. And love is nothing but an illusory celebration of that existence."
Let go of my arm—
"Rest."
The mind is still. They leave.
When the boy's hands are tied, he obediently has his arms held behind him. He sits into the open trunk and offers out his ankles, Armand diligently tying them too. Out here, in a pre-dawn haze, there are some more details to pick up. A kind of sharpness to Armand, a tense way of holding his face.
His makes eye contact with the kid, and seems to want to say something else. Maybe it's deliberate, showing off this glimmer of vulnerability, uncertainty, the desire nested in hesitation. Maybe Armand is only so good at curating a person's mind.
Instead, "I sometimes enjoyed our conversation," before the rest is submerged in deep blackness, which resolves into the humid interior of a car's trunk and the taste of saliva-soaked denim.