Philadelphia
(C) 'Antediluvian // Please don't reproduce or alter without permission. (- I really don't know why you'd want to.)


Preface;
Daydreaming in the night time, on a rainy day, after consuming too much caffeine and sugar.

I can't remember the last time I just lay on grass, in a park and looked up. Marvelling at the glare of the sun reflecting against my cornea; ignoring the slight stinging sensation it caused, where sometimes I'd have to blink away tears borne from a daze.

I try recalling it now, back not quite leaning against a soon-to-be-dismantled IKEA chair, head tilted against the subtly bulbous top of my spine- eyes closed, listening to feel good music. Spreading my fingers across air, I can't recreate the feel of grass between my fingers, but I know how it's supposed to look. To atone, I try and visualize the drift of heavy set clouds contrasted with the stark blue of a winter sky.

There would be swings pitched between pieces of blackened bark, empty as they were noisy. A forgotten cubby house with the slippery slope rough from use and scratched by unidentifiable objects found only in the deep of children's pockets.

Perhaps, a housewife and her sister, walking an ugly pram along crooked sidewalks, looking strangely at the boy sprawled against the hill, a little out of reach from the holed shadows cast by a large tree and the gaps between its leaves.

There is a book, bent and forgotten in a cast off bag, and I wonder why I thought it would be a good idea to bring it- the weight and its movement bumping against my thigh would only serve as a nuisance.

Only later, when I'm distanced from the local park, frustrated at my lack of awareness- some genius forget their house keys- and waiting for the weary return of a parent, would I feel grateful that I bought some reading material, and only after a few more turns of the clockhands would I berate myself for not starting to devour the strings of letters and allusion that is the good novel held open by my permaturely wrinkled hands.

The song blaring from my computer speakers would grind to an untimely end, me and my tendency of messing with song speeds to up their tempo, the sound quality raspy due to setting the volume a level and a bit too high. Slowly, I would lift my head from the comfortable position it lay in, back curving into its familiarly horrible posture, and a sense of sight- relaxed from breathing a bit of black, once more assaulted by the harshness of a white screen made of blue-green-red pixels from the harmless visible spectrum.


AN: Wanna take a gander at where this is headed? All I know is one day I will write something that isn't a story. Because a story has a complication and a resolution.
What is a story without a complication and in turn, without a resolution?
A significant memory.

I want to write something like that. I believe William S Burroughs achieved it with Naked Lunch, but maybe I'm much to immature to read between the lines of his genius.

Yes it will be about Zero.

Things To Know: Philadelphia is one of my personal works being re-worked into a VK fanfiction- ergo; AU people, alternate universe.