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this time it countsMitchell leapt into the air, hanging in a moment created by the crush of sound and bodies surrounding him. A flash of light, the drum sticks a blur, the vocalist's hair thick with sweat, hanging in his eyes, and the pick against the guitar, the chord holding Mitchell up.
It was the perfect shot. As he began to fall back down to ordinary, he pulled his camera to his face and fired. His converse hit the floor and a body slammed into him. The camera whipped around to his back, the strap cutting into his neck, and he was crushed against the wall. His heart dropped.
When the bodies came away, he saw glass winking on the floor, shoes already coming down to beat it into dust, bodies already coming around again, pushing against him, too intimate, ugly for being unaware.
He staggered out of the crowd, shoving against t-shirts coated in sweat and the faces, eyes forward, expressions high and drunk on either the music or something else, somet
white goes upthe weight of the broken morning
is shards of a vase on the floor.
we are not discussing anything.
when he sits, he folds himself.
he folds himself a thousand times.
folds himself inside.
the piano calls my sorrow
by name. I don't know how
it learned to do that, and
I don't like the feeling, as if
there are seagulls loose inside
and they kept circling overhead.
my body opens
the frenzy of silence.
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Bluefley has a gallery filled with artwork that whisks you off in to a Sci-fi daydream, and keeps you captivated for hours. Marc has been a member of our community for over a decade and has achieved nothing but success with his astounding commitment to interacting with the community, sharing a prolific amount of video tutorials and generally being an all round rockstar deviant. It is no joke that we are absolutely delighted to award the Deviousness Award for April 2014 to ... Read More