Man in the Room: Eight months after the funeral.

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He can’t be trusted inside hunger, inside appetence. He’s on repeat, on repeat, repeat, repeat… A skip in the playtime, the airtime, a glitch in the slate.

There are buttons, ceaseless buttons, knobs, dials, levers, switches, toggles and tuners.

The pattern on the couch is bustling, contorting, fervently alive in a slight of the light that peeks timidly from a crack in the rack of the curtains.

It’s an acidic fastidious itch under the seat of this man with an effigy that beats the matter of the mind.

And in the matter that oscillates in the backseat cerebral movement he said, ‘I can’t see you there.’ Here, he said, here, did he say here or there? Either way he can’t see you – hidden inside a hunger, an appetition, an insidious craving with dissatisfaction sewn in the hem of it.

Black track, a black beaten track; the passage of it, the flood inside, beside, the headway forward. All we’ve got is a fickle, furtive account of the man’s O.B.E.: floating apparition, a double, a dead ringer, a back lit duplicate.

He is faces – a multitude of bulbous bombastic faces with wise phrases written on his palm.

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