The consequences of my passivity are strange to me. Like the diary of a stranger, to be understood with patience. I'm ever a guest in a hotel awaiting reality. As sleep reclaims me in the night, I think of all the homes dug like burrows in the ground. I wonder why happiness comes at a price so cheap, but so difficult to pay. It's the only possibility, really, but one wonders all the same doesn't one? Yes, difficulty is the only currency worth counting. Cool cash only greases wheels of vulgarity and pride.
And why is it that with cynicism I sever ties, but with desperation I merely scream? I always believed that hardship was a forge, that in the event of failure I will reign yet supreme, but no. Failure does dish in plenty, and tears only flow for the pure. Hence, my oppressive domain of shadows. To think is to drown in the infinite, and to doubt is to waste away. Only the grind is left to me, and I must in every sense of any solidarity remaining to me go on. The moment preceding this strife, however, hangs heavily, and I am loath to begin for want of those for whom despair has no meaning. And I wait-
Smoke looms like an elegant eye. It awaits the feminine neckline, the masculine hunger. It reeks of the greed of the gloom of the mysterious night. It clouds the dark club like the Friday night singer's throaty voice. Only the passionate, dark red of the upholstery of the arm chairs speaks of the merriness of daylight. Even so, the dark, sumptuous color only hints at liveliness, while the rest of the room lurks angrily and presents smiles only if hideous with flaking, layered horror. A figure glittering gold arrives from the bathroom door. The garish fabric wraps the neck like a fleshy collar, and the face surveys the night scene with empiric pride beneath a perfect tiered system of beautiful, black hair. The swell of her hips meanders smoothly, and her face appraises her surroundings with the petulant greed of a child. Only the haunted eyes of the man in grey remain averted. His black pipe lays idle upon the lonely corner table contributing a trail of smoke to the whole of the gritty fog. His hand taps sporadically upon his table, and his lip twitches as a dress that is a uniform parade of golden glamour seats itself snuggly beside him.
A delicate hand finds his shoulder, and at the lovingly sensuous touch of lips upon the flesh of his neck, his eyes do not flicker from the distant world of devils and despair. She wafts her beautiful mouth along his skin, straightening her back to whisper into his ear, and with this final assault he turns slowly toward her. With the boring depth of his sad, pale eyes that serves not to bring the man into the gloom of reality but to shock this presumptuous, flirting feline into a shadow world of hideous seriousness, her playful frivolity is stilled. She slumps for a moment staring into his personal wanton pain, then presses on with ignorant impunity. Her hand finds his thigh and plays provocatively there while the other presses against the back of his neck to allow her lips to find his. With the sensuous delicacy of her kiss, his eyelids slowly curtain horrors from the present, and he slowly slides a hand up her back with a lethargic carelessness that suggests neither passion nor play. Lights dim further upon the evening and two beautiful people, one flashy and dull, the other an enigma hidden beneath a death mask-black like tar, imbibe physical ecstasy through their respective, sweaty skins.