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Being one of those most unfortunate people who absorb the news they read or hear into their soul, Arthur miller was unlike others – prone to moments of despair where others may have instead have allowed the grim reality of the surrounding world slide like their small change into the base of a guilt filled collection pot into oblivion. This evening, where the sky was so clear that the moon appeared printed on its inky navy darkness rather than the distant celestial ...
The flat was small. His room in the flat was smaller. The right hand wall occupied by the noticeboard that served as socail calendar buisness filing and academic research collection, the desk next to it – exhuasted by its dual existance as office and dinner table and the bed alongside the other wall. Which seemed to close to the left hand wall to be called the far wall, indeed the term far seemed demeaned by the concept. The saving grace of the room; the box in which Arthur hall found himself residing ...
Condensation formed winding rivers and streams across the inside of the cheap single Payne windows. The Marvell of their existance being the expense of glass had been afforded. Accompaning the economy of the windows rose the bare blocks of the walls, brutal in their funstionality. Damp clothes stood impartialitaly in the corner whilst the bed and the desk faced off against each other across the breif stretch of empty no-mans’ land. The room was hostile territory, designed to be engaged by a personality, ...
you eat her and me. you all ate her, made me. you all ate her, even though you knew her. we killed her, you ate her, made me. We knew her. we killed her. you had to, then you ate her, made me, I knew her. you all knew what you were eating, you all knew you'd killled her, you carried on. We’re safer without her, we were weak with her. She made us weak. She made me vunerable. you had to eat her, we all knew that. you cannot have her back. ...
you know I don't think I've ever written about a functioning couple... My first thought was that I should shoot her. The gun was lying heavily in my coat pocket, I could have done it. I should have done it. But then again, it was her – she was back, maybe this time she’d stay. I doubted it. But the hope was enough. Hope is something incredibly hard to argue ith in matters of love, Even if they concerned her. “Very kind of you” she said “not to shoot ...
Updated 05-22-2011 at 07:33 PM by Sir.
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