Misplaced Work Hours
http://www.dickipedia.org/dick.php?title=Main_Page Hours of fun...
Also I have finished up to about 200 pages of short stories and small excerpts like these... I'll be shopping them soon. I think some of them have some really good stuff in it...
You like to make love to music the same way I like to write to it. You would turn to me and say, "Put on track 4. No baby. Put it on repeat." I would role my eyes because I heard it as many times as I had entered you. You became a record with no b-side. You became a Hemingway novel where the old man never made it back from the sea. He died out there with the fish and consequently the story was never told. I would interlock my fingers into yours and push them over your head and kiss around the baseline of your neck. You would moan, but you would moan to the song, and I would be thinking about what paragraph could follow what I was trying to complete.
In the noise that comes from the air you can hear electricity. At least that's what I saw one time in a movie. In the ocean there are things in the deepest parts that we can't even imagine to exist. That's what I read one time in a magazine. The human brain only uses 10% of it's actual ability. That's what I gathered from a book as a child. My life beats on without the ability to define magic. My life beats on in search of that definition.
When we define a man in the end of our time, whatever species is to evolve from us, I hope magic is part of our definition.
I held your face in my hand as if I was trying to hold the most delicate thing ever created or formed by earth. I thought at any moment, with any quick touch, any false faith in my fingers, you would crumble or blow away. I took in the lines as if a Da vinci painting were in front of me. You dare not touch in fear that you may crack, smudge, or taint the oils so perfectly assembled. You can only admire. You cannot use. You can love from a far but to engage or make a purchase at such a thing is to trick your soul into denying all that nature has shown you in the name of beauty.
"Why are you leaving?" she said with a shy, heightened and hurt voice.
"I can't do this to you."
"Do what?"
"I can't let you believe that I'm real. I can't let you think that this exists. I will never exist the way you dream me."
"You already do."
"You don't understand your dreams."
In the morning on August 6th you opened the paper. I had known you for 7 months. You brought me coffee.
"I don't drink coffee," I said to you.
"I'm sorry."
"No need to be sorry. I've never seen you drink coffee either."
"I usually don't but it's Sunday and I thought you might like some on this lazy morning."
"I don't want it."
Somehow, a leap was attempted. There you were flying through the air with your hands grabbing for wind. You were hoping you had the light bone structure of a wren and the wingspan of an eagle. But, you fell like a rock into cold waters below. You fell and never recovered. You simply ceased to be anything but something I didn't want to know.
We ate dinner once, and you grabbed a crouton with your fingers. You flipped your head back and popped the bread into your mouth as if you were eating shrimp on the coast of St. Croix. I picked up my fork and wiped it with my napkin as you sipped water and attempted to not look like a whore that was wearing too much make-up. I never forgave you for that moment. I never cared after that.
As I entered the center of the room I saw a silhouette dart across a silk screen placed in the North West corner. I wielded myself and saw another silhouette, too fast to make out any distinguishing features, blow passed my back and I could feel a slight breeze. I whirled around and around again and continued to see strange shadows. I walked over to a desk that had papers blowing around from the commotion. Under a paperweight of Icarus I saw a note that read, "Freedom is in you."
As I turned around, I saw a naked little man with a faltering bathrobe skip, and land into a run. I slightly jogged to the thrown open double doors and only saw little wet footprints tracing his escape down the stairs and out the front door.
I heard cries of "Eureka! Eureka!" as he ran out into the world.
I got over top the ball and looked down. The sun reflected off the northeast corner as though someone had painted the glare on. I heard the distant yell again. This time it was closer but still seemingly muffled and cautious.
"Pick it up!"
I leaned forward and picked up the ball. I tossed it to myself as I stood up from my squat. I saw that there was something written on the side I had not seen. It was in tiny little black verdana letters on the bottom. I shielded my eyes from the sun and held the ball forehead high in front of me: "Do not run". I pursed my lips together and furrowed my brow, shrugged my shoulders and turned.
Over your head feathers started to fall inside the elevator; pillow feathers. The white ones that we all wish would fall on us. The fluffy white ones that have no ground good enough to grace their pendulum-wafting downfall. The fluffy white ones would get caught in your hair and you would brush them out and giggle a little harder than a child would. You would giggle with a woman's passion and grab the sides of my face, slowly moving your fingers and hands to the back of my head to grab my hair. You would raise your right knee up around the back of my thigh and push me with all your weight as hard as you thought you could to the back of the elevator. You thought I had done this for you. I was nothing more than there.
