HIPSYRUPTER. —What, are you depressed or something. The slender black chick is one of the friends of the young brooding white dude with unassuming hornrimmed glasses. She’s the one asking him this. And both look rather youthful in the rainy twilight and interested in something-or-other and are somewhat the fault-line rendered across their own era, as most who in youth are that and are the finest, polished generalities of their own onerous age, given age, of discontent, onerousness. They are in kitsch-tees throwbacking some other, unremarkable era or technicolor scheme for to express perhaps not disdain but confusion as to what mattered these days, what was important. They walk out of the subway and she attempting then to wear out the veil the conversation before had begun to drape more and more over their sulk, box-brained, as the causeless persistence of either one towards questioning not-sure-what on the 1 train uptown had brought them to an alienating place. In the rainy twilight I passed them, that was all I heard of the conversation. Had I know he had told her, —Well, take that guy in the black shirt and the weird design, with shorts, suppose he wrote about me. What then. Am I expected to be ready-made for someone else’s story. So I guess you’re right, Heidi, I am depressed. I am depressed that I cannot live my own life rightly through others’ glass. —We’re shards. Heidi said. And they walked somewhere I don’t know for awhile, maybe in silence, maybe changing the subject. If these two peeps are as eloquent as I portray them through my own glass, probably, most likely, he hadn’t responded at all to her question, but with the eloquence a shrug gives. As for me, I don’t know: all I heard of the correspondence was her question, passing by the two loners as they walked the stairs up from the one train on 86th.
Posted on: Fri, 07 Jun 2013 13:24:09 +0000
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