The Metaphysicist (Kill Your Darlings) | Featured

go to sleep, white devil

I haven't yet unpacked my clothes since I arrived at Lucien's apartment, because first I was criticizing both the exterior and the interior of the place, and then I was practically losing my mind in a pit of irrationality, and finally I settled down for a dinner of spaghetti rings that was far from virtuoso in the culinary field thanks to Lucien's absence of time spent on writing manuscripts that he always trashes and slanders for being inadequate when they're probably the most beautiful set of words I've ever read in my life -- though he won't allow me to read them anyway, so it seems that all is strange in this man and his apartment.

But now that the roaring impulsivity of our evening has sputtered into a gradual death tinted by quietness and fading laughs, and after a few hours of sitting on the couch and discussing things that no one else would think of discussing, I noticed that the light is retreating from the skies to make way for melanoid waves of fire whom humans constantly adore within the blades of grass surrounding their tender heads, and it's time to rest, as today has been very strenuous to say the least, and I can feel the purple rising from underneath my aging skin whom I have tortured with sleep deprivation and no apologies, but I figure that I can't sustain restlessness forever, and this day has taught me that sleep is a wondrous activity for writers who know nothing of it.

This excursion that doctors claim is extremely beneficial to my declining health is a motive to unload the items I shifted from the basement and into Lucien's apartment, and I chiefly scour the fabric laden contents for my toothbrush buried in a plastic bag to preserve it against the ineffective laundry job I often do to pass the time when I'm starved of inspiration for something to write, because although I have millions of people flooding my inbox with comments, laziness is much more of a friend than they will ever be.

I search for a while before stumbling across the toothbrush finally, and I find that the forest of bristles who previously stood straight up in proudness is partially battered by the pressure of the rest of my clothes and the glass cat that I should consider placing on Lucien's dresser for him to discover with a smile printed on his angelic face as he realizes what the familiarly unfamiliar object is, but my toothbrush is nothing special compared to what I'm now witnessing in Lucien's bathroom, with his utensils looking as though they had recently emerged from war with fatal injuries as they bleed out into the sink yet never die, because Lucien always has enough morphine and enough medicine to sustain them, rotating through their battalion on a specific schedule so that each one is properly tended to, so that each one maintains a life in unison with him, and it's somewhat deranged, but it's all the way Lucien Carr, a man whom I trust for being so erratic, because that erraticness leads him to great feats.

I cautiously pad into the cesspool that is Lucien's bathroom, though it reeks of excessive cleaning to replace the horrid sights with the horrid smells that admittedly aren't as treacherous as what my eyes are beholding currently, and that's what he's going for. To be fair, he didn't anticipate that he would be receiving a new roommate, considering he brought this about solely on an aspect of his spontaneous character that may or may not have actually been a fruitful decision, for I now have a friend and a place to stay that isn't the dingy hole called a basement to many but called a home to me, but I was in that trance when I stepped into his apartment long enough for him to hastily repair the wretched state of his bathroom. I wouldn't mind, because I was thoroughly convinced that I didn't even possess a mind in that abrupt flow of confusion that almost knocked me into every item scattered across the apartment, but I assume that Lucien was as scared of what was happening as I was, so I presume he's not to blame for neglecting his bathroom.

Nevertheless, this is the only water closet in the entire flat, and it's not like I'm asking the neighbors if I can utilize theirs, because that's both creepy and incompatible with my awkward nature, and if I were to ask them anyway, I could be sure that there would be a feud between us for the remainder of my residency here, which I don't know the length of, primarily with the impulse that sparked this out of faltering origins, but if we're writers like we claim to be, then we act solely on that impulse no matter where it guides us, so it might be a while before I escape the leering gaze of the neighbors, though I'll most likely just stay inside to resolve all potential conflicts antecedent to when they escalate.