"I could see all the scenery with which he dressed his imagination; furniture, drapery, costumes; I decked him out with a coat of arms, a change of aspect. I could see everything that impressed him, just as he would have liked to create it. When I felt him succumb to lethargy, I'd follow him into strange, complicated under-takings, going all the way for good or ill. I knew I could never enter his world.
..How many nights, hour after hour, I've kept watch over his dear, sleeping body, trying to work out why he wanted so badly to escape from reality.."
- Rimbaud
We've brought this perverse fantasy into existence almost unconsciously.. it just goes to show that sigils are cast whether or not we intend it.
He asks me to bring him to life! This ghost of a boy is just as lost as I am. We're reinacting the seediest visions from the art we love, glorifying death in life. His beauty and the opiates are conspiring to stun me into inaction. As long as we're anaesthetized and beautiful we'll fade fade away. Something needs to happen. Too many unfinished stories trail off as I drift to Nod, words smudged with carbon dust from the bottom of the spoon.
Of course it's no surprise I'm here. It's just such a grey, slow death and I'm so lonely I could die. I thought Death would come in costume, dizzy and euphoric. Not nodding off in a torn t-shirt alone alone alone.
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