Celluloid Trances

Stretched across the seascape, a faint smell of mystery.

I was home during an afternoon of blinding rain, the rooms cluttered with sprinkles of croutons, anthologies of despondence wed novels, and the synthetic mist of French perfume. I had saturated my Pepsi with apricot juice. Everything seemed to be under the spell of a forgiving age. The voices of multiple women singing falsettos beyond the television’s screen were almost intoxicating to hear on that dreamy trip to a content Saturday afternoon. The consequence of a late morning had led me to wake up to a burst of sunshine that was disconnected in totality, it was cut by the grid films, yet it softened the noise of a grungy past. I sat looking away from the window, to keep my sight away from the confusingly quick rain.

O arrive On the edge of tomorrow and fly Onward the dawning tears.


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