I am sitting in my room. The window is open and the smell of freshly cut grass wafts in. I can hear him, over my earphones, engaged in a meaningless argument with my mother. The neon blue paint on my left index finger is chipping. My dad is arguing about something on the phone as Carla Bruni gets louder. A brainless grey butterfly, the size of my thumb, adds the special effects by hitting herself incessantly from the outside of the window. I look to my left and see him standing at the door. Laughter and pretentious mockery escaping his eyes.
June 23, 2009
The Joker and the Queen