A Man and a Hundred Marble Walls

He departed from his bed. Ready to start that still unformed morning; his eyes hadn’t a coherent vision before him. He washed his face and dabbed with a perfect wool towel. His eyes muster all possible fascination by the fading fog departing from the cold sheen mirror. His body was headless, now his visage got more and more familiar. A thought delivered those famous three words he dreaded every morning.

“Oh, it’s you again.”

He trod down his suspended wood-plank stairs and dipped with a twirl around his favorite Andulesion staircase. His perfectly pedicured feet touched those dark varnished tiles, and into the vast chasm of a living room, he stares into the blank space, and wonders if the place got any bigger. Perhaps the northern wall required more pictures or other dangling ornaments. Yes, that would fill up that horrid bloated white wall.

The toaster beeped, his favorite crunchy delight was ready for his ravenous teeth to sink in that charcoal action coating that once a fluffy blanket of pure whole-grain bread. He gulped his tall glass of full-bodied milk until his coffee was ready.

He took the steaming cup and leaned by the nestled caramel-wood sill. His eyes sink down to a rectangular labyrinths of navy blue, rimmed with pale pavements. Several scruffy dots dash along the pale arms of concrete while other loiter in pairs. He closed on a minute binary system of two people–a mundane human interface.

He relished the sense of height and grandeur from looking down at such a distant experience. Yet the feeling would barely last, it had always left him with a lingering aftertaste of bitter, tangy metal. Why does it press on his ribs, the mere sight of two souls, entwined into one.

Now he witnesses the two move in unison, with a colored covalent bond between them. So elementary, yet essential to the very fabric of reality.

He finally remembered his perfect exile. Even prisoners send letters and receive some words back. But he was now an obscure captive behind perfect marble walls. His sandal wood surfaces, brushed till the quintessential final finish wouldn’t hide the subtle rusty rife of old ash. The corners filled with floating cobwebs. And a dingey ceiling is all that he sees now whenever he saught the milky blue sky.

He felt up the side of his face and felt the coarse brush of thick quills. He plucked several strands. How long had it been? How long had it been since he had heard his voice? Had it been years, he refused to believe the extent of lost time, almost mocking his efforts to fight it and forget. Why was love abandoning him with so many gifts, tangible objects made of cold yellow steel, yet the very thing that mattered became forgotten like a vague childhood memory? And nothing is left but walls, white-washed walls, perfectly symmetrical screaming of desolation.

This man cared and loved, but no one would ever know the gifts he possessed in his heart, forever to be left under his shadow. Collecting moth and dust.

In this fancy uptown loft, This man was all that was

and less.

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