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NEVER ON SUNDAY, Harry Potter. 000. I ache for the idea of it.
I'm sure we're taller in another dimension You say we're small and not worth the mention You're tired of movin', your body's achin' We could vacay, there's places to go Clearly this isn't all that there is Can't take what's been given But we're so okay here, we're doing fine
(white ferrari, frank ocean.)
There is no one event or feeling that is completely unique―someone else has felt it or the watered-down cousin to it, they have stood in this spot and existed, just as Ludivine Toussaint does, and just as she will do for the next week. Staring at the acrylic reflection knowing that this feeling is not beautiful, it is hideous and acidic in her throat, and yet somehow: Stanczyk is beautiful in his mourning.
Beautiful in the realization that he is performing for an effect that he will never himself possess―still in his separation from society and in turn: himself. Being understood, for Lou, was more important than being happy, or more importantly content with being. Looking with a nod to Stanczyk that says: I see you, is the greatest gift she could ever give because it is the one she so dearly wants to receive.
Someone who understands the panic after the war. The deep-seated self-hatred for breathing in the soot, and looking at the bodies, and then going home. For doing all the mundane things that the undeserving dead cannot. An art, or word that encapsulates the discordant note she is living on, negative color, non-existent number.
This is routine, the wallowing. It is easiest to set a time to be lost, a time to think about the faces and names, and limbs; a time to stand or sit and let it consume. And then, with her hands shoved in her coat pockets, she leaves, both the purgatory and the museum.
