The air in the corridor presently is frozen and makes museum pieces of rotten fruit and spilled fluids. Oldenberg and Jackson Pollock. The smell is not pronounced, but scarcely less palateble. It remains close to the floor; hovers there like a soul unable to flee. Even the paint on the walls reminds one of dead flesh. Traumatised where once it was simply distressed.
Outside it feels less cold than in. Primary colours in the wan sun.
Reds and golds and a bruised clear sky.
Halitosis puffs of vapour on the wind. Dying insects trying to get back up and right themselves over on the grass.
There is no turning the corner.
I haven\’t felt much like writing lately. I sat down at the keyboard and tossed this off as an exercise in shaking the mental arthritis loose a little, of stirring up the petri dish; just to see what words might come. I had no intention of sounding quite so bleak.
Oldenberg\’s apple core reminds me of Walt Disney\’s Mickey Mouse for some reason. I think it\’s the buttons on his pants.