>=∞

I take another chord, but ain't getting any closer. Close the closet. Hide my body. Folks were talking, chomping, slobbering. Ah, what a snobbery. Talking business, gossips, made-up stories. My aberrational thoughtflood would sweat with blood from this frowst, these circular movements of hundreds of mouths, many months ahead so fed up, yet so thirsty. The motion of waves, the ocean of blurry, unshaped, misaligned, malign, tepid words. The cramps in my feet, dammit. I'd traffic in the worlds of yesterweeks, yesteryears, only give me a chance. What's the current currency? A few crumbs of bread on my tongue is enough to survive today, so 'til tomorrow I'm fine.

And I find a new chord, full of grace and of grandeur. All that I can afford is pretend to play with devotion, eyeing you slyly, with a silly face. How's my ghost note? Could you hear it? Ha, you can't see me: I am sitting in my camera obscura, peeping through a pinhole. Ha, I see you, and I can hear you think "what an asshole". Well, indeed.

What did we do to deserve all this? What we did not? So I sit, and the weight of a basswood body, cold as a corpse, presses against my lap. I pull off, hammer on, kick it brutally, as if it's her fault; and she likes it, the strings of her heart sing. The sounds that she makes sting.

### ### ###

This was written for Gabriel Huizenga's "Lost-ish" Challenge. Don't forget to follow the link and get lost.

I feel like I should have phrased my previous sentence slightly more clearly to not sound rude. But please believe me, no rudeness was intended. I merely was trying to be funny.

On another note, probably the above scribble might be pretty much hitting the ceiling of the lost-ish and pushing its way up to the lost. But these all are concepts with quite blurred boundaries, right?