Die Writing

Personal death

Posted in Uncategorized by erdaron on April 24, 2011


I don’t know if I’m digging humidity. SF might be the only place in these United States where I feel comfortable.

Only you

A stranger was sitting at my breakfast table, forlornly looking out the window. He was wearing a mask – a brightly painted ceramic skull that was frightening and cheery, and perhaps even more frightening because it was so cheery – so I couldn’t see his face. Still, something about his demeanor was clearly forlorn.

He was skinny, emaciated even, yet did not appear sickly at all. There was something strangely cartoonish and animated in his slow, languid movements. On top of everything, he wore an impeccable black mariachi outfit, complete with a giant sombrero. A pair of gunslinger belts hung around his hips. Golden pistols with leather-bound handles stuck out from the holsters.

The long fingers tapped out boredom on his chin, and he slowly turned his gaze toward me.

The eyes! He didn’t have eyes. Darkness pooled where the eyes should have been, and within these pools something glimmered, likes stars in the night. Looking into his eyes was like looking into the night sky, somewhere away from the city lights, somewhere lonesome.

“Ah, good morning. I’m death.” He paused, regarding the moment. “Your personal death. You are not dead though.”

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