{ ... }

۞

{across a telephone}

{crossing a sea}

It was a long story, cut short.  

The Other:  “I knew it! I knew you'd leave me here,”  

{waiting for nothing}  

The One:  “A jealousy is consuming me,”  

°The One says leave me, The Other says don't leave me°  

{waiting for a reply}  

The conversation was taking place across a sea's worth of reception, breaking-up, bad waves.  

The One:  “If I give you a time can you come and join me?”

The Other:  “You're going to have to stop treating me like some Other.  I know we've not establishèd whether we are each other's significant other just yet, but, I told you before you left that I'm still not ready to exhume what happened to me because of the last One.” °and yet, I remember° she rememberèd.  

The One:  “How about the 9th? You'll be in France then, right?”  

The Other:  “I'm too much of an experienced traveller to know that if I come looking for you in a city like Paris we'll miss each other somehow inevitably.”  

The One:  “Listen, I'm not The One for you,”  

  The One lost the call completely, abandoning The Other on the end of the line.  Abandoning The Other.  Abandoning, reckless.  Reckless abandon.  

  The One didn’t truly appreciate what was so significant about the significant other.  Until it was over.  The phonecall.  

۝

{ ... }

THE END.

۞

  Witham Sispa was moving through a time that had temporarily lost sight of his own reflection.  It went missing for weeks; no substance, no separation.  Mister O’Niste was waiting for Mister Sispa in the train station mist.  

  The sound of the locomotive clackèd closer.  Clack clack clack, down upon the beaten leaden track.  It was the way back.  The steam blew in from the chimney turret.  Choo, at a distance, choo-hoo, nearer and nearer, the final destination of the men from the mirror.  

  Mister O’Niste was a ruminationary.  He blew on a thick black cigar full of tar.  On the road below, the noise of the automobile car.  Beep beep, parp parp, the noises of automobiles shrill and sharp.  In the air up there, the smoggy fog from the industrious town of the Parisienne quarter of Voltaire.  The day, the week, the year, had been an entirely grey affair.  

  Mister O’Niste wore an extraordinarily large black top hat.  It went up-and-up and then outwards a little, widening, up towards the top, but the top remained flat.  The hat was so large in actual fact that the hat was linèd with lead to stop the haughty thing from tipping and falling from Mister O’Niste’s head.  His coat ran down, from the top of his shoulders, the coat ran down to his thigh, a sumptuous and elegant brown.  

  Mister O’Niste took another puff from the cigar full of tar and blew the smoke around his crown.  

  The steam, the fog, and the smoggy smog was gathering in and around the two men and the sky was thinking of raining.  The bell from the train sounded off.  Ding!  Ding!  Ding!  

  °ablanathanalba°  

  Was it Witham Sispa or Mister Magog who left with Mister O’Niste in the mist and the fog?  

  Phenomanonymous.  Noumenal abstractness.  

۝

{ ... }

۞

The Following is something that comes after.  A follower is one who emerges after.  After The Ayah.  At The End of Each and Every Ayah.  The truth was brought forth with laughter.  

°I just wish we could banish the sound of it sometimes°  

{a serious thought}

۝

{ ... }

۞

  This was the end for Stoker.  The moment that Jack could not look back.  Jack Stoker: the stockmarket broker, professional hamshanker, former love for the investment banker.  

“What's the balance, little Gemma?” he askèd his darling daughter.  

Stoker askèd the question with the fear of expectation.  

“It just reads 1,000E, daddy” replièd his darling daughter, little Gemma.  

۝

{ ... }

۞

It is It. The end of the Internet.

To Be or Not To Be?

No 'Is'

No 'Am'

No 'Are'

No 'Was'

No 'Be'

It is It.  Was it Anontology or was it History?  

To Be or Not To Be?  

° Will She?  Won't She? °  

° Will He? Won't He? °  

No 'Is'  

No 'Am'

No 'Are'

No 'Was'

No 'Be'

To Be or Not To Be?  

°no sense of self, just one author and one protagonist?°  

It is It.  

ITSELF

THE SELFITSELF

THE VERY SELF

DEFINING ITSELF

..|....|....|.....

It is It.

END-USER.

۝

{ ... }

۞

  The Following was a series of ending: the beginning of a myriad of characters unfolding.  Our undoing.  Ding!  Ding!  Ding!  A bell does ring …  

  °ablanathanalba°

۝

{ ... }

۞

  Kaiaphas walkèd along the Mediterranean shores of Haifa.  He had been to pray at his father's and his father's father's grave.  He was at peace.  He still carried his Magnum 45 revolver handgun, strappèd around his shoulder and hanging next to his rib cage.  The metal was hot inside the hot leather holster from the blistering afternoon sun.  His Magnum chocolate ice cream was cold.  His stone-wash denim shirt was unbuttonèd, to reveal his white cotton vest underneath, and it billowèd around his torso in the coastal draft.  

  Kaiaphas took another slurp on the Magnum ice cream … ° « j'adore chocolât… » ° he thought.  

  Kaiaphas was crunching through the chocolate casing, cold and melting.  

{penetrating vanilla}

  Not an ounce of ravdak davar botherèd him.  

  ° … °

  {an Ishmaelite approaches him}  

۝