alive together in freedom of spirits, languishing in wanderlust, touch and intimate emotionless anguish filled lovemaking.
between bottles and wrappers, lines and thighs a sharp intake of breath rings out, clear silence among the noise that one moment frozen, like a photograph of sound.
Warm and beautiful, sticky from debauchery and perfect moments.
A room full of sounds but still silent. whispered conversations, laughs, moans, tapping, cleaning, clearing, living.
And somewhere in the background a television buzzes with eternal white noise turned down but still audible, a constant droning presence.
In this space nothing matters, no life nor spirit draining problems "issues" harsh and violent words are irrelevant life is lived as if nothing matters but the present. The here, now and never.
Smoke rises to the ceiling. Social hang-ups are put to rest. the world tedious as it is, is still.
Every corner of the room smells like cigarette smoke and desire. fingers traces the length of a girl's spine while she lays with her own hands entangled in the hair of another.
The number frequently fluctuates, people come and go. manic street preachers. when they cross the threshold they become one with the rest of the inhabitants. the room in itself is a white void that lives and breathes and moves to its own rhythm, everything outside it is finite.
A boy sits in the corner positioned upon a pillow, his back pressed firmly into the joining walls
a leather bound book is nested in his crossed legs, pen poised between his ink stained fingers.
the nameless boy, the emaciated looking boy. wears worn faded jeans and a deeply thoughtful passionate expression. He gazes at and through the scene that is being played out before him.
and only feet away multiple bodies writhe and groan on a stained, sagging mattress. like the monsters and ghouls that stalked your childhood dreams.
oblivious and aware of everything else that goes on, a group of people play cards, drinking gin out of jam jars, bottles and antique bone china. A voluptuous girl, no more then eighteen. clad only in a nylon slip; mixed-race limbs covered in self inflicted scars, wanders the room exchanging looks and sharing kisses. giving out parts of herself to anyone who will have them.
taking a drink from another occupant of the room, she joins a circle of laughing individuals discussing nothing and everything.
joint in nought but the ideology of keeping going until they burn out.
The slow atmosphere of the room. time does not hold court here, nor does it weigh on the shoulders and minds of anyone within it. a clock sits stationary on a windowsill, the hands covered in dust; point to three and eleven and always have done. time has no place here.
Light beams down through the opened, un-curtained windows, dust particles filter through the air only sometimes highlighted by the suns rays. everything is given an other worldly glow an untouchable calm. Nothing more natural then concentrated substances.
the floor is littered with all that is imaginable; tea bags, spoons, tin foil, ashtrays full to brimming, a curling manuscript lay's forgotten under a chair, fag packets, plastic bags, a mug in pieces where it came to rest after being propelled against a wall with extreme force, silk scarves fished out of a skip, candles, four bunches of wilted carnations still in the polythene from the 24 hour garage, pot noodles, the television still buzzing, acting as a table occupies a space, resting upon it is a rusting birdcage, its paint peeling as it sits empty and silent, newspapers, an acoustic guitar and all manor of things one could find in a place such as this. freedom is everywhere, in the air, in the glasses, in the spaces between entangled lovers, in the pauses between sentences, and the space that exists between dangling legs and the cold hard wooden floor.
.....
(unfinished)
