A Foul Trinket of Transcendence Left in a Balloon

Jeff Rozalewicz


Jizz splattered pavement obscured the chalk lines drawn of childish design. It would be unknown or, rather, forgotten by the tenants that lived along the row of crumbled brick apartments sheltering the street from the coming sun. The stench of misused cunt folded over the edges of frayed newspapers rolled up along the curbside.

There were only three strewn newspapers though; most people didn’t read the news anymore, they either watched it, or caught fragmentary articles displayed as the most ‘popular’ or best-suited-for-your-pleasure when signing in to check their email—eyes tired, but open to some sensationalism, not in the mood to read an entire article that might come across as revelatory—the eyes would widen and they would move their finger, hand hovering, hesitating over the mouse, pondering as to the time spent reading such news and the worth it could possibly sustain upon their lives, or rather the next few hours, for they only had mere minutes of checking their email, some of which could end up being important, sending the recipient into a frenzy of realizing the extended time and effort required to send a reply. Save it for next time.

Going to sleep sounded like it might be a mis—…wise idea. But then, and then, shall we go along then.

Jimmy sticks his hand through one of those dog flaps like you used to see in the movies

—except where did all of those images seem to fleet to? Is it that people don’t feel safe letting their animals roam around outside anymore—well, I mean dogs, as stormed by mere representation from movies, of course cats can be undomesticated—it’s the domestic ones that will exchange facial scars for unwanted—


It wasn’t that Ryan’s scar ran deep. It was that he liked to pick at it. Sometimes it gushed.


—And the air flow on the other side of the flap had that distinctive feeling of breach, like when you slowly extend your finger towards a vertical (vertigo that was never fulfilled) fall of water, a faucet, dreams in streams that flow seamlessly into the drain of transitory darkness and renewal, or like those fancy fountains in malls or walls inside zoo buildings with water, ever trickling, and it was that moment of penetration that you sensed was so real and surreal at the same time, but wonderful in the sense of transporting nerves and flesh into an altered field of perception from the perspective of the fingertip.

And the carousel music seemed warped the drunker he got.



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