I sat back in my chair and lit another cigarette. The light had gone on in the window of the house to my left. I was no longer alone in the universe. I felt a flurry of activity in my neural corridors - the synthesis of clandestine proteins, the overspill of avant-garde chemicals. It was a childhood feeling that was being restored to me. That of being prey to secret conspiracies withheld from the adult world. I was plugged back into my generator of guilt. Who can explain why guilt is often such a mandatory part of pleasure?
The young girl, the simmering witch maiden, stood close to the window. As usual she had stripped down to expensive black underwear. She mimed some kind of hieratic act of surrender to the night sky, as if she were in a TV commercial. What would she be advertising? A hair product? Perfume? A pension scheme with better interest rates? She was advertising sex of course. Everything either advertises sex or safety from harm, immunity from violence.
'She mimed some kind of hieratic act of surrender to the night sky' - worth the cost of admission alone. Maestro!
ReplyDelete"I felt a flurry of activity in my neural corridors - the synthesis of clandestine proteins, the overspill of avant-garde chemicals."
ReplyDeleteInstant recognition. There's only one writer I know that could propose a sentence like that. Marvellous achievement.