Spencer
Bluelight Crew
I met her at the diner last night, and we talked about all things new and old. I looked at her and tried to figure out who she was. She wasn't that girl I knew last year, with the caustic stare, the tragic eyes. She wasn't that girl I knew two years ago with the jaded stare, the bored eyes. And she wasn't that girl I knew as a child, with the wide eyed wonder, the hopeless enthusiasm.
I looked across the table at someone who was dead. The other patrons at the diner stared at me as I talked to the open air. And as I broke down sobbing, I couldn't control myself. The tears flowed from my face like rainwater down a storm drain, little puddles gathering on the table, near my napkin, and the salt shaker. I went though the usual motions of dispair. Screaming "Why?" and other such acts of mellodrama, as the frightened and nervous diner patrons watched on.
She kept saying she was sorry, over and over again. But why was she apologizing. It was my fault, really. I pushed her. I cajoled her. I encouraged her. I told her to love what she does. To give herself over completely to her art. And to never compromise her integrity. Above all, never compromise her integrity.
Her last work just sold for over a million dollars. It was the canvas that was behind her as she shot herself in the face. The note said something about it being her final, climatic work. I felt her die when she did it, in my small studio apartment across town. That was 365 days ago. Tomarrow is the annversary of the night she died.
Tonight is the anniversary of the last time I spoke with her.
And as I yelled and screamed and sobbed in the diner, the owner, Bob, had to call the police and have me escorted out. He told me he was sorry, as I flailed and cried. But the costomers are getting upset. You really do understand, right? Please come back when your feeling better.
The cops took me home. They dropped me off at my doorstep, and let me in, using the keys from my pocket. They dropped me inside my doorway, leaving me a crumpled, huddled pile. And for the next three hours straight, I cried. And cried. And cried. Then I got up, took a shower, and went to work. Life goes on. My life goes on, anyway.
[ 29 March 2002: Message edited by: Spencer ]
I looked across the table at someone who was dead. The other patrons at the diner stared at me as I talked to the open air. And as I broke down sobbing, I couldn't control myself. The tears flowed from my face like rainwater down a storm drain, little puddles gathering on the table, near my napkin, and the salt shaker. I went though the usual motions of dispair. Screaming "Why?" and other such acts of mellodrama, as the frightened and nervous diner patrons watched on.
She kept saying she was sorry, over and over again. But why was she apologizing. It was my fault, really. I pushed her. I cajoled her. I encouraged her. I told her to love what she does. To give herself over completely to her art. And to never compromise her integrity. Above all, never compromise her integrity.
Her last work just sold for over a million dollars. It was the canvas that was behind her as she shot herself in the face. The note said something about it being her final, climatic work. I felt her die when she did it, in my small studio apartment across town. That was 365 days ago. Tomarrow is the annversary of the night she died.
Tonight is the anniversary of the last time I spoke with her.
And as I yelled and screamed and sobbed in the diner, the owner, Bob, had to call the police and have me escorted out. He told me he was sorry, as I flailed and cried. But the costomers are getting upset. You really do understand, right? Please come back when your feeling better.
The cops took me home. They dropped me off at my doorstep, and let me in, using the keys from my pocket. They dropped me inside my doorway, leaving me a crumpled, huddled pile. And for the next three hours straight, I cried. And cried. And cried. Then I got up, took a shower, and went to work. Life goes on. My life goes on, anyway.
[ 29 March 2002: Message edited by: Spencer ]
