Of course she embodies that glorious life, both of us recast as sheet nymphs, sustained by wine, fucking, and fancy, feeding each other tales of ennui to fat the iridescent yearnings that occupy our meat. Where the joy of creation is in the presage of destruction, each frivolous mise en scène is exquisitely constructed and rabidly dissected. In this way we are known to be voracious livers, heading hedonist first into nihilism. We revel in it quietly, lying in the little pools of stolen sunshine that bloom around us, and having taken all else, we turn to each other.
Nic Addenbrooke is a freelance writer, editor, content creator, radio broadcaster, part-time poet and sometimes artist. Nic has been coming to terms with existence for years. He currently lives and works in Brisbane where he struggles to turn the cacophony of voices in his head into things of substance. It doesn’t always work but occasionally produces a nice veneer of sanity.
14/11/2016 at 10:55
Brutal. Your vocabulary is very strong. Verbose, with purpose. I enjoyed it. I can imagine it read aloud in a husky voice.
14/11/2016 at 11:50
Thanks Harry, glad you liked it.