Job hunt yielded 2 applications.
And...I really felt like writing today. I did. I wanted words to flow, but dammit, it's all just....argh. I hate it. I stated this awhile ago and worked on it for a bit...I don't know. maybe I'm too verbose. maybe I'm too critical of myself. all I know is, I'm a little annoyed with this. I think it would help if I just WROTE, but fingers don't want to seem to do it. perhaps fear of failure? What if I try really hard on this and its crap and I can't write period? blah. Oh well. I'm trying to write it in a differenet manner, but it doesn't seem to be working like this very well. I think maybe it will work better later on in the story due to what will happen. I just need to finish it and see...
Two old friends meet as strangers for the first time in a restaurant. The candle in the center of the table faintly illuminates both faces. She orders the spaghetti with marinara and a decent red wine. She carves swaths into the spaghetti, and then twists it onto her spoon, bending the limp noodles to her will. He orders prime rib, rare, and a pint of Killian’s. The meat seems to recoil from his toothed knife as he tears and cuts the meat into edible bits. Only the soft sounds of chewing are heard, along with sharp metal clinks and dings, and the dull thud of glass set down on a table cloaked in maroon cloth. There is no need for nervous small talk, broken bits of thoughts and sentences malformed and unripe; they are comfortable around each other. For the most part. Unlike the past 3 three years, tonight they are on a slight edge. This is new.
The waiter delivers the bill in a black binder. It is dutifully split between the two friends, who are, first and foremost, just that. They exit the restaurant into the night air violated by the lights of the city, which consume the stars in its black maw. Their footsteps reverberate off of the red brick walls of the ancient buildings and the black asphalt of the street during the several-block walk back to an apartment. Though they are physically separate, they are thinking in parallel lines, echoing eachother.
Does this make sense to you?
It fits.
It’s comfortable.
How long until dawn?
And...I really felt like writing today. I did. I wanted words to flow, but dammit, it's all just....argh. I hate it. I stated this awhile ago and worked on it for a bit...I don't know. maybe I'm too verbose. maybe I'm too critical of myself. all I know is, I'm a little annoyed with this. I think it would help if I just WROTE, but fingers don't want to seem to do it. perhaps fear of failure? What if I try really hard on this and its crap and I can't write period? blah. Oh well. I'm trying to write it in a differenet manner, but it doesn't seem to be working like this very well. I think maybe it will work better later on in the story due to what will happen. I just need to finish it and see...
Two old friends meet as strangers for the first time in a restaurant. The candle in the center of the table faintly illuminates both faces. She orders the spaghetti with marinara and a decent red wine. She carves swaths into the spaghetti, and then twists it onto her spoon, bending the limp noodles to her will. He orders prime rib, rare, and a pint of Killian’s. The meat seems to recoil from his toothed knife as he tears and cuts the meat into edible bits. Only the soft sounds of chewing are heard, along with sharp metal clinks and dings, and the dull thud of glass set down on a table cloaked in maroon cloth. There is no need for nervous small talk, broken bits of thoughts and sentences malformed and unripe; they are comfortable around each other. For the most part. Unlike the past 3 three years, tonight they are on a slight edge. This is new.
The waiter delivers the bill in a black binder. It is dutifully split between the two friends, who are, first and foremost, just that. They exit the restaurant into the night air violated by the lights of the city, which consume the stars in its black maw. Their footsteps reverberate off of the red brick walls of the ancient buildings and the black asphalt of the street during the several-block walk back to an apartment. Though they are physically separate, they are thinking in parallel lines, echoing eachother.
Does this make sense to you?
It fits.
It’s comfortable.
How long until dawn?
posted by Brandon at
6:10:00 PM
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