warm socks, cold toes

There is an eternal invitation for you into the warm home of Elizabeth. Her and her friends will make you whole. She knows all that you don’t, and you may never find that out. She is distant, and always has been.

Her friends, like her, are intellectuals and artists. They are death walking on two sticks.Their faces twitch and sometimes frown. Their permanent mark is the muted scowl; the ability to draw all facial features slack. Forever critiquing, quietly, the world and those around them.

This is done with the purest curiosity, the passive collection of data experienced by all conscious organisms; yet sometimes appearing in poor manners, disorienting, loud, and strange.

Cigarettes and cappuccinos stain their teeth, but only in summer.

The shelves are stuffed with books, hardbacks tower over the bed and scatter about the wood floor. Clothes, hair-ties, nail polish, paper, paintbrushes, hollow cans of beer, crumpled notes, dead lighters, dead mouse shit, dead fruit and house flies, all lie in orgy birthing an ethereal, translucent fog rising towards the ceiling, catching the nose of Elizabeth and her friends, reminding them, imprisoning them; This is you. This is your entire world.

Never leave this place.

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