/lit/ - Literature

Sidney Baker sat down alone in the dark, carefully removing his swastika and laying down a grass-stained peacoat before crying briefly, nervously, and then counting his buttons. He had decided last month that he was not depressed but long talks on the veranda, Mediterranean styled houses with white bubbled walls textured like cave, cliff falls and sea salt air, sashaying footsteps of soft skinned girls, dry ground, unlit pools, forest fires, the chattering of insects: all of it was a slow irritant to his weak nerves.

In the quiet garden however, there was enough drink and solitude to move into a silent blur of a place, a thin embryo to escape back to, the twenty-buttoned-him-outside just holding sobs now, teetering nervously as a proud man of twenty eight now reduced to personal meditation while friends and others fucked the night into a husked memory. Five buttons later, he was undone, his murmurs just louder than the music inside, every note singing his private toneless song, an elegy for a girl removed.

It's a fancy dress party