Was glänzt, ist für den Augenblick geboren,
Das Echte bleibt der Nachwelt unverloren.
Nur ver sich vandelt, bleib mit mir verwandt.
-Goethe noch ein mal
So there once was this guy of playful deceit with
temerarious little thought trickling off his sweaty brow. I
say was, mind you, to kindly accommodate readers of
whom read this after the fact. Now this gentleman
wasn’t a Greek God or any such shit but simply
unearthly attractive. Shadows hit this guys face like they
themselves belonged to him, wise old Commander of
the Shadows. You could look at him and know he had
the answers. You weren’t able to judge him by his
clothes because one was unable to concentrate. His
movements were all at once and begged you to look
elsewhere. Begged you to trust your own instincts,
begged you take a gander at the world disquieted
pissing passed your face.
Damn was the man a smoker! And that’s the key you
would think. Observe his most common routine and fall
back into your nice little niche of motherly love and
knowledge. Oh how ease is the lotion of life. Without
knowing the cigarette brand it’d be hard. His motions
were difficult to decipher but like a referee I began to
espy. Out of nowhere he reached into a pocket and
came out with what I can only estimate was a lighter, a
Zippo. So he flips the top of this bitch back where what
is to behold but yes, a perfect little flame for our
Commandante de Sombras. I couldn’t help but
imagine that instead of lighter fluid a philter of fire
existed. He wasn’t perfect but in fact very imperfect. He
was the kind of guy Americans had in mind when they
decided to invent James Dean. He had his own style
when it came to the actual in and exhaling of this
cancer stick he beheld if you could believe that. I can’t
exactly describe the act except for saying that he did it
efficiently, damn* efficiently.
I really hate going on and on about some character you
can’t talk to but I think it’s important. If it’s any
constellation, I am sorry. I bet I’m the most incapable
voice you’ve read. A while back I came to the conclusion
that no one writes for himself. So I says to myself, “Self,
be honest and don’t pretend like you’re writing to
yourself. Anne Frank was senile I say.”
I don’t know. This is* Dean.
*Editor's note: "damn" and "is" italicized. Don't know
how to do that here.