Wednesday, May 2, 2012


Julian shortly thereafter realized that every girl he'd ever see (and that's all there ever would be, because everyone was – and always would be – a child) was some crude, derivative echo of a primeval scar-lender, some forerunner of a wicked temptress.

He tries to picture the face of the new girl, but it's drowned out by the primary recollection – the first one of her colour and cruelty to root around in his guts. Julian focuses – he wants to exorcise this spirit of a dead angel and see Eve before him – and succeeds – the insipid seraph replaced by the yang to the yin he’s flooded with.

"I can remember her face," he says, and some form of a wry smile carnivorously cuts his face into the profile of a thespian.