“He left bloody fingerprints on the rock, but there was something satisfying about that. I was here. I exist. I’m alive, because I bleed.”

“But perhaps loneliness is the human condition. Broken intermittently by flashes of something else: camaraderie, friendship, “love.” Too much social life & one hungers for seclusion. Too much seclusion & one hungers for social life. A pendulum back and forth. No rest, no stasis. I really don’t know…do I need people very much, or is it all a kind of illusion, surrounding oneself with friends, imagining needs, connections, exchanges…? How does one know the first truth about oneself?”

“how do you feel about helicopters?“

there was a long pause. “how do you mean? ethically?”

“as a mode of transportation.”

“faster than camels, but less sustainable.” 

( texture credit )

• “ ‘Cubitum eamus?’ ‘What?’ 'Nothing.’ He transferred the cigarette to his left hand and offered the right one to me. It was bony and soft-skinned as a teenage girl’s.”
• “Boo,’ he said. We both jumped back. Francis smiled thinly, light glinting off his fraudulent pince-nez. Cigarette smoke curled from his nostrils.”
• drives an old convertible Mustang very very carefully
• “Good girl,’ said Francis, winding the bandages around the arch of her foot. Like most hypochondriacs, he had an oddly soothing bedside manner. 'Look at you. You didn’t even cry.’ 'It didn’t hurt that much.’ 'The hell it didn’t,’ Francis said. 'You were really brave.”
• “Francis, barefoot and still in his bathrobe, stepped precariously over rocks and branches, balancing his glass of ginger ale. Once we got to the lake he waded in, up to his knees, and beckoned dramatically like Saint John the Baptist”
• such a drama queen
• “Francis sent me a six-page letter about how bored he felt, and how sick he was, and virtually everything he’d had to eat since I’d seen him last.”
• he cooks fancy elaborate meals for his friends
• “this man was not Voltaire we killed. But still. It’s a shame. I feel bad about it.”
• very good kisser even if NO ONE APPRECIATES IT
• tastes like tea and cigarettes
• dresses like a victorian age fashion icon
• that scene where he sits on a windowsill and drunkenly eats maraschino cherries at 6 am
• “Somebody – one of those damned toddlers, I guess – got my favorite scarf off the bed and wrapped up part of a chicken leg in it. That nice silk one with the pattern of clocks on it. It’s just ruined.”
• has a bad habit of burning furniture with his forgotten cigarettes
• signed his suicide letter with “Cheerily, Francis”
• he is absolutely covered in freckles
• “asparagus is in season”

flower, printemps - still life

- Forever | r.m - published in Fragments