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Saturday | May 17, 2014 - A Violent Violet
Layer of sweat now chilled by the walk from bar to subway, station to apartment on mid Spring evening, could be felt like skin cracking apart that top layer of crème brûlée on the come down crash into crumpled duvet and down comforter. Finger tips still pulsating, bruised and aching from mindless, merciless tugs at guitar strings pushed up through damp espresso mane with only partial sensation of fine strands. Reeling from a set faked through with satirical smirks and quick one line punches before tiny red Ford Fiesta was packed and left parked in Brooklyn, there was no slowing down from the divine, rushing high of adrenaline, no time to drive or the self control required not to slam down on rubber pedal's propensity for stupid mistakes.
Every single fucking smile and drink she guzzled down was another bright white light reminder of life and what a shitty, unfair asshole it could be; another pinch and pull to wake her up from the much craved daze she continued to curl up into to smack back to the reality of what had happened: Her truck was gone. An entire afternoon at the New York City Police Department's 9th Precinct had confirmed it somewhere between the segments of being filled in on the situation and then questioned like a suspect herself. An All Points Bulletin had been put out on white, custom designed empanada truck, and the cold, tactless truth she already knew didn't go wasted once more: the likelihood of finding it again or in one piece was unlikely.
What the fuck was she supposed to do now? In an instant her entire livelihood had been snatched up from underneath her - no, not just an income, a second love, another loss in a fresh year of nothing but laments and the more she was left without distractions or quick solutions the longer reality festered. Abused digits coiled around the soft, fresh white pillow, yanking it over contorting facial features to hold down tight before unleashing a scream that shred vocal chords raw. Launched across the room the clambering sound of something crashing to the floor pulled back red hot ears and sent off a light bulb that had black boots moving over hardwood before there was any time to bother with analyzing thoughts and feelings in a logical manner. Fuck that noise. The burning sting of overworked knuckles and prints served as fuel while pulled books from shelves, yanking sheets from the bed just the tip of steel toed Doc martin came slamming into the corner of it. Clothes, books, records, trinkets, photos would end up comprising the middle of the room and the bed she'd end up sobbing herself to sleep on tonight.
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Saturday | May 17, 2014 - A Violent Violet
Layer of sweat now chilled by the walk from bar to subway, station to apartment on mid Spring evening, could be felt like skin cracking apart that top layer of crème brûlée on the come down crash into crumpled duvet and down comforter. Finger tips still pulsating, bruised and aching from mindless, merciless tugs at guitar strings pushed up through damp espresso mane with only partial sensation of fine strands. Reeling from a set faked through with satirical smirks and quick one line punches before tiny red Ford Fiesta was packed and left parked in Brooklyn, there was no slowing down from the divine, rushing high of adrenaline, no time to drive or the self control required not to slam down on rubber pedal's propensity for stupid mistakes.
Every single fucking smile and drink she guzzled down was another bright white light reminder of life and what a shitty, unfair asshole it could be; another pinch and pull to wake her up from the much craved daze she continued to curl up into to smack back to the reality of what had happened: Her truck was gone. An entire afternoon at the New York City Police Department's 9th Precinct had confirmed it somewhere between the segments of being filled in on the situation and then questioned like a suspect herself. An All Points Bulletin had been put out on white, custom designed empanada truck, and the cold, tactless truth she already knew didn't go wasted once more: the likelihood of finding it again or in one piece was unlikely.
What the fuck was she supposed to do now? In an instant her entire livelihood had been snatched up from underneath her - no, not just an income, a second love, another loss in a fresh year of nothing but laments and the more she was left without distractions or quick solutions the longer reality festered. Abused digits coiled around the soft, fresh white pillow, yanking it over contorting facial features to hold down tight before unleashing a scream that shred vocal chords raw. Launched across the room the clambering sound of something crashing to the floor pulled back red hot ears and sent off a light bulb that had black boots moving over hardwood before there was any time to bother with analyzing thoughts and feelings in a logical manner. Fuck that noise. The burning sting of overworked knuckles and prints served as fuel while pulled books from shelves, yanking sheets from the bed just the tip of steel toed Doc martin came slamming into the corner of it. Clothes, books, records, trinkets, photos would end up comprising the middle of the room and the bed she'd end up sobbing herself to sleep on tonight.
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Saturday | May 17, 2014 - A Violent Violet
Layer of sweat now chilled by the walk from bar to subway, station to apartment on mid Spring evening, could be felt like skin cracking apart that top layer of crème brûlée on the come down crash into crumpled duvet and down comforter. Finger tips still pulsating, bruised and aching from mindless, merciless tugs at guitar strings pushed up through damp espresso mane with only partial sensation of fine strands. Reeling from a set faked through with satirical smirks and quick one line punches before tiny red Ford Fiesta was packed and left parked in Brooklyn, there was no slowing down from the divine, rushing high of adrenaline, no time to drive or the self control required not to slam down on rubber pedal's propensity for stupid mistakes.
Every single fucking smile and drink she guzzled down was another bright white light reminder of life and what a shitty, unfair asshole it could be; another pinch and pull to wake her up from the much craved daze she continued to curl up into to smack back to the reality of what had happened: Her truck was gone. An entire afternoon at the New York City Police Department's 9th Precinct had confirmed it somewhere between the segments of being filled in on the situation and then questioned like a suspect herself. An All Points Bulletin had been put out on white, custom designed empanada truck, and the cold, tactless truth she already knew didn't go wasted once more: the likelihood of finding it again or in one piece was unlikely.
What the fuck was she supposed to do now? In an instant her entire livelihood had been snatched up from underneath her - no, not just an income, a second love, another loss in a fresh year of nothing but laments and the more she was left without distractions or quick solutions the longer reality festered. Abused digits coiled around the soft, fresh white pillow, yanking it over contorting facial features to hold down tight before unleashing a scream that shred vocal chords raw. Launched across the room the clambering sound of something crashing to the floor pulled back red hot ears and sent off a light bulb that had black boots moving over hardwood before there was any time to bother with analyzing thoughts and feelings in a logical manner. Fuck that noise. The burning sting of overworked knuckles and prints served as fuel while pulled books from shelves, yanking sheets from the bed just the tip of steel toed Doc martin came slamming into the corner of it. Clothes, books, records, trinkets, photos would end up comprising the middle of the room and the bed she'd end up sobbing herself to sleep on tonight.
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