Page 143 - Contrast2012

catching fireflies in Mason jars. My joints would be tense
under six feet of dust by then. In my mind, there was a stiff
timeline on my decline. Soon, I'd carefully orchestrate an accident,
or so they'd call it in the papers. The click-clack of computer keys
would eat that shit up before they'd cut me down: Beautiful
girl, 21, in the conservatory, with the rope. The effect
of the austere affair would stain B8, which would affect
readers all afternoon until a murder/robbery/rape in the tense
urban evening took precedent. My funeral would be beautiful.
You never let me talk about these things. You kept your lip stiff
playing dumb whenever I'd mention my short shelf life. "Q:.i?"
you'd ask, "Who's dying? Not you. No." A red-washed accident
with the paring knife forced you to the phone (the accident
was my getting caught). Everything became important, the effect
similar to a mother in labor. I was rushed and stripped and on the keys
of a mobile notebook, insurance information was recorded. Tens
of thousands of doctors proctored my progress. I aced their stiff
gauntlet of tests, my skill in the art of bulls hit providing me with a
beautiful
escape. Maybe by accident you let down your tense
demeanor as you listened, the affect of my lie familiar like stiff
melodies of piano keys; it was hypnotic and it was beautiful.

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