/lit/ - Literature

Pale boy, stomach turned, afraid to make memories
Pale boy, wanting nothing, lost in his own thoughts
If I ever saw him I saw him all the time
Dogging my steps in syncopation

Brawling for attention
Down where the leanest ideas lie
Drowned in disconnection
Pale boy pissing in the turpentine

Scribbled on the back of a neatly folded patch-bay diagram was his farewell note. The ink had smeared where sweaty hands pressed upon the paper, but the hurried message was still legible. It read:

Words don’t exist for the type of life event and spiritual aftermath I want to describe. If there were a word for it, it would be something akin to Awakening but without the sweet anonymity of a budding consciousness. I am no longer I. It’s not sure it ever was.
Don’t come looking for me!
A lie is a terrible thing and the truth is worse
Don’t come looking for it!

>>9489992


Percy cursed, eyeing the clock in misery. Nightshift at his uncle’s studio was very hit or miss; it was terribly exciting or life-crushingly bland. Either he would spend twelve hours staring at closed doors and expansive ceilings, leaning against the wall to absorb the ticklish vibrations of acoustic assault coming from deep within the building, or, on a good night, he would be suddenly accepted into the lounges and welcome to partake in all manner of lighthearted fraternity and depraved abominations within the silent walls, guardians of the great and the talented and the evil and the manipulative, fortified to cover the shame of raw brilliance, vulnerable only to the lowest of frequencies that would escape their clutches and vibrate against PJ’s skull, giving him a pleasurable, funny sensation, like he’s talking through a desk fan to hear his voice in comedic oscillation, except the oscillating fan is really the resonating wall and the speech is the inner monologue on loop within his now resonant head.
For exactly two and a half hours, PJ rested against the queer massage of the vibrating rear wall and angrily kept time since The Artist had called.
At 5:12 AM and roughly thirty seconds (his scrupulous timekeeping was suffering, despite several large doses of ingested stimulants) PJ’s salvation came in the form of headlights flooding the lofty and very narrow windows, poor substitutes for cut glass but conduits of sweet deliverance nonetheless: The engineer could close, if needed, or the morning crew would take over. PJ could go home, and he didn’t even have to clean up.