![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
Moon's full.
This hasn't been my favorite waxing, I'm pretty sure, despite the happy turn in national politics. Here's to a pleasing wane? I dunno. I can't see that far ahead right now.
A waxing's about a fortnight, ain't it. A waning the same.
Tonight the moon is full, and I feel empty. My heart feels empty. My head is damn near a vacuum, too. And I'm sober. Of course maybe that's the problem. It can be sobering, sobriety.
Even the word sounds hollow. So-ber. Big long-o so, oh, lazy "so?"--- plus brrr. Burr. Thoroughly no fun. One syllable barely accented over the other. Sober.
I talk as if it's a big thing for me tonight. It isn't. It's just a thing.
I guess I don't have anything to say. I have cable TV. What is there to say.
I kind of hate the gods. Don't tell them. No, they don't know---when they're plural they're not omniscient. That's not strictly by-Edith-Hamilton, but I say it's true. Admit it, it feels true. Gods busy planning how to lie to the wife about the raping, and thinking they're sure punishing disobedience by making you a pillar of salt, and falling in love with their reflections or cursing somebody to do that, I forget, is Narcissus a god or just some dude? Oh, Edith. You'd be scowling at me from the back of the paperback, wouldn't you. Could I take you to bed, Edith? I know you were one of ours. You just looked a little beyond giving a go at opening up to me, that's all. I might be wrong. But my point is, your many gods are so deliriously human they clearly don't know shit, any more than we do, any more than I do. So they don't already know how much I hate them, if you don't tell.
Come here, Edith. Kiss me. How else will I know whether I'm beyond it myself.
A waxing's about a fortnight, ain't it. A waning the same.
Tonight the moon is full, and I feel empty. My heart feels empty. My head is damn near a vacuum, too. And I'm sober. Of course maybe that's the problem. It can be sobering, sobriety.
Even the word sounds hollow. So-ber. Big long-o so, oh, lazy "so?"--- plus brrr. Burr. Thoroughly no fun. One syllable barely accented over the other. Sober.
I talk as if it's a big thing for me tonight. It isn't. It's just a thing.
I guess I don't have anything to say. I have cable TV. What is there to say.
I kind of hate the gods. Don't tell them. No, they don't know---when they're plural they're not omniscient. That's not strictly by-Edith-Hamilton, but I say it's true. Admit it, it feels true. Gods busy planning how to lie to the wife about the raping, and thinking they're sure punishing disobedience by making you a pillar of salt, and falling in love with their reflections or cursing somebody to do that, I forget, is Narcissus a god or just some dude? Oh, Edith. You'd be scowling at me from the back of the paperback, wouldn't you. Could I take you to bed, Edith? I know you were one of ours. You just looked a little beyond giving a go at opening up to me, that's all. I might be wrong. But my point is, your many gods are so deliriously human they clearly don't know shit, any more than we do, any more than I do. So they don't already know how much I hate them, if you don't tell.
Come here, Edith. Kiss me. How else will I know whether I'm beyond it myself.
no subject
The full moon wipes out everything, and it even wipes out itself, like those crappy flash snapshots with the creepy thin shadows around the face, and all the facial features but the blushes and blemishes flattened out. The full moon is an empty sight.
I've put your waltz back up after AOL zapped everyone's website off the internet:
Fflo's Waltz
no subject