- Untitled -

A bar crammed to the brim, both with merry and misery. Life and it's equivalent danced together amidst the smoke and fumes.
At a table alone, Adam sat with a bottle and a crutch, which smoked and ashed instead of a quill.
None known to Adam would grace this plane with their presence or a nice word. Adam sat, with a bottle and a crutch.
A stage constructed decades ago stood near the entrance where Adam faced. Green eyes aglow outlined with red and hope, disguised in despair. Yet never a tear, never a clue, and never a reason graced his lip or face.
Six cheap beers and three stolen shots of rum from a befriended stranger had him as happy as he was willing.
'A piece' Adam called it, rather than a song or poem.
On the stage ahead of him, sat a child of no hope. She was vacant and true, the song dying in her hands and mouth if it ever lived in her tongue or her guitar.
Her empty soulful song ended surprisingly on a high note, for a song about childhood molestation.
Applauses outnumbered the tables, the girl stood, whispered a thank-you with a bow, and left the stage, disappearing behind purple flowered velvet curtains.
Adam, who choose not to clap, looked down at his hands, which lay next to spilt rum, and it likewise, next to a spilt drunk, name of Freddie perhaps.
A dainty white hand was suddenly waving in view. 'Hey bud, you with me?'
Barmaid, beautiful, through panes dirtied with trauma and neglect. 'Sure, why leave?' He could hear his own voice vaguely, defeated?
'There's always closing time sir,' wit, from a barmaid of no renowned intellect, perfect.
'Could I get you another?' At least she said it all with a warm, blonde framed smile.
'How nice of you to commend a drunkard with 'sir', with manners such as those, how could I refuse?' Adams ability to control or detect his own slur fell away with the ash and the peanut shells many a beverage ago, and he feared he was indecipherable. This barmaid obviously spoke the tongue of fool.
'Another beer then?'
'Please'
'Cougar then?' She double checked, nodding toward the empty cans on the table.
'Please' He grinned, gracious, devoid.
'Sir' She nodded, curtsied Adam imagined.
A spotlight suddenly shone on stage. Adam hadn't realised it was turned off, or remembered it's existence. His red eyes shut quickly, shutting out the glare, his neck bending to accommodate his retreating face, as he dared slowly to re-open his lids. A mumble caught on his lips, the sound some make when they awake.
Blinking still, the stage stepped into reality again, where a soft, undefined, then defined image of a thin, ordinary looking man on a stool, guitar-clad an solemn, sat.
'Hey' he spoke 'How is everyone?' he smiled. Only half looking up as he tunned his guitar. A few drunken claims of emotional paradise curved and stemmed toward the stage inn response to his rhetorical.
The guitarist looked up; 'I'm here to entertain yas,' and as he looked down he said just as clearly; ' and to earn some dosh' with a cheeky, generously toothfull grin. Quite beautiful. Mostly because of the sincerity Adam Guessed. Then his cynicism kicked in; this man was obviously stoned.

- Inner Connection of Coil -

[NB. This has a visual influence! To view it, click the following: postcard front.

Zack collapsed on the ratty couch skillessly and was soon close to sleep. Images of the nights events swished past in his head, Frank smoked his jay, legs crossed on the armchair, displaying the perfect image of surreal menace. Alex and Cascade lay next to him, Alex asleep, resting intrusively but amorously on Cascade's breast. Just a stone session in Zack's back shed. Suddenly it all shifted, and a dream pierced his brain. He stood in the classroom. But not any classroom he learnt in now. Strangely his unconscious mind noted that it was indeed the conglomeration of several classrooms from his youth. All of the seats were empty, no noise came from the open door that led to the hallway. Out of the corner of his eye he saw that trees grew on the fringes of the classroom, as if upon meeting the walls, the room transformed itself into a spectacular dense green rainforest, templated from an idealistic landscape painting upon the walls. Even behind himself, pots held wild ferns that spilled over. Fallen leaves collected upon the linoleum, climbing upon each other toward the ceiling in the corner of the room. Zack looked up and saw not a ceiling but a canopy, the sun shining through persistently, eternally. Suddenly he had the instinct to look at himself and saw the tidy garb of a teacher. Cardigan vest of green over a pink long sleeved button up, with tie of deep red and thin white diagonal stripes. His pants were deep green, his shoes were brown. Behind him, the alphabet scrawled cursively on the blackboard, and as he gazed at the 'O' he heard a squawk. With no other warning an Owl flew and perched onto his arm. Brown speckled with white and black. Vines grew on the walls beside him, and as he looked at the Owl a smile gripped one side of his lip.
Zack remained standing there a long time before the dream faded, befriending his psychosis.