/lit/ - Literature

Young, sad-looking man in black cardigan interviewed on daytime talk show. Stunningly oblique. His persona is effortlessly void. There is no nihilistic sentiment or spiritual affect. He just isn't there, any more. Sometimes he just goes silent altogether and won't answer questions. He just isn't there.
“Tell me James, when did you last sleep?”
The host, a mid-forties black woman in a bold yellow suit that stretched to breaking point across her great shoulders, leans close and the bridge of her noise is riddled with creases in strained sympathy.
“Six... six days ago, I think,” he says, looking at his feet.
“Six. Days.” she repeats silently, turning to face her audience while still hunched over across the table as if she's about to crawl onto it, like a huge yellow lizard with its tail slit.
Shot of audience member, a man with black skin and no eyes, just a patch of empty skin over each blank socket, as he shakes his head and moans repeatedly.

Watching this on the television intently, a sensitive, voluptuous girl is clueless as giant spider eggs pop and burst in her room