Oh, I wanted to tell you how much I missed you. But procrastination and wariness is commonly my repetitive mistake. No less so this time. I will miss you tremendously, you know. Maybe I’ll do it right in dreams. I miss you so much.

Bright violence.

During the rainstorm we were stuck underneath an awning near the shoe store, and the concrete embankment flooded, up to our ankles. For a brief moment I had this extraordinary feeling that we would get to stay there longer, get to know each other better. But the rain only lasted for around twenty six minutes, at which point we started walking again, and with all the people on the street, it didn’t feel so suddenly personal anymore, the things we said and shared. I liked it a lot better during the rainstorm.

After grandfather passed away the house fell into an almost immediate disrepair. Our grandmother took to resentment and bitter avoidance. She would refuse, for instance, to come out of the piano room when others were in the house, and soon that room filled with the rancor of the dying. Upon entering the house, it looked and felt as if a grave had been upturned and left open. Her spoiled eyes peered out from a sunken face, squeezed tight with rage, loss, and something of fear. When I helped her to remove her sweater this morning, she winced and smacked my hands away, growling like a frightened puppy. I took my leave of the house and drove to my job at the wharf, remembering fondly how cute my grandmother and grandfather were together when I was younger, and how much they loved each other; nothing ever seemed to hold them down. That’s the way a boy should have to remember his grandparents. Not like this, with a house unfit to bury the dead in.

I hope you find me again.

The Unachieved Christmas, 6/7.

(Source: corpseonpumpkin.com)

With growing fascination, the candles were lit and the circle became quiet. We intended to look fondly upon the Beast, and to fear nothing but to live another day without purgatorial prospect between the hybrid wings of light and darkness.

(Source: corpseonpumpkin.com)

Follow you into your death.

(Source: corpseonpumpkin.com)

Simple decisions were made cloudy by compounded pressure and too much whiskey. I left the cleric’s hall feeling as though I’d just woken up in a coffin, having found myself buried alive in some form of jest. And the fresh air outside did nothing to relieve me. If anything, the drive home served only to enrage me more; the excess of traffic, and the sounds of car horns blasting, and the seemingly endless sea of tail lights flashing low reds then high reds then low again, made me sick and dizzy. Why was my body seemingly sinking into the drivers seat? Was I melting? I used a pay telephone to put in a call to the office hall, to tell them I would be needing a week off. For a death in the family.

(Source: corpseonpumpkin.com)

We stood in a circle around the fallen deer and held hands. We whispered over the body, clouds from our words forming in the middle of the circle. It was so cold out. Through the fog from our breath we watched the deer pass. Then we knelt, and removed its head, and we put our cupped hands to the severed neck and filled our palms with blood and drank, and I felt like I was in love with someone, only really it was just the newness of respecting and caring for the people I was with.