Vol. III, Issue 1
September 2007
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By Cyrus Console
Without a moment’s warning we were on the red sofa in the common area, the floor lamps drawing themselves subtly, assuredly to full height. It was then I witnessed for the first time the ritual burning of flowers. A column of thick yellow smoke welled in the acrylic chamber of the archetype. Had there been music playing before?
They assumed a terrifying comeliness, they glinted like a caravan threading some dunes. The wine they again brought out, and I drank of the wine, and was drunken, and I lay, cheated, and stole. Each time the sweet smoke mounted to my head it seemed to pronounce, this is your life now. Moments later, as the throng of sparrows the hedge concealed commenced their nonlinear song I smiled, whispering, yes, it is.
And so once again I had ruined everything.
Copyright © Cyrus Console
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