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“There is no doubt fiction makes a better job of the truth.” Doris Lessing, Under My Skin
Published:
Interaction between the image and word: a short story was written as a response to the sent photo.
Text: Anže Zorman
It hasn't always been like this. And it hasn't always been such a mess. But life has eaten
one of the destinies.
This certainly didn't happen in a straightforward fashion; in retrospect it might seem that the last years have fallen like dominoes and that this bottle is actually the same wine as all others. The ones that have drunk my will to live every day and fueled the other one. The will to drink. It is not that hard to live with it, with addiction.
The problem lies in the mold whose smell starts to envelop the days on welfare. You smell it when you stare idly out the window and don't see the other side of this fucking Panonian plain. When you sometimes unwrap
a home-made sandwich to eat it in the sun at a part-time job and this moldy smell of this shitty life hits
your nose.
 
He may have been unlucky. He may have been unlucky if this is the key how loneliness picks
its companions.
I was a sociable person. I had girlfriends, and I even lived with one for a while. When she left, she was already
a woman. A few years after her, another one left. I changed jobs a bit more frequently. Jobs, coworkers, commuters on the morning train. But even they eventually left. And then comes a moment when you look around and become horrified by the fact the you're no longer surrounded by faces of your loved ones. You see your own shadow on the wall. There is a picture of a naked woman hanging above it whose hair flutters in the wind.
It seems as though she's looking towards the door. No, nobody is coming.
 
He wasn't particularly talented. From shallow hedonism of his youth he came an adult infant and sat in one place.
I will miss your cooking. Not the kitchen, I don't like looking at it as it's usually left messy after eating. But I like to cook. Not particularly well but tinkering around the kitchen keeps me busy. Even if I always end up with the same old rice and every packet of pasta is the same, I almost feel free. I don't when I watch TV. I stare at it because I'm bored stiff. And because anything is better than this loud silence produced by idleness. To drown it out I've recently bought a puzzle at the flea market.
I took the worn box to the bus like a fool and rode home. But I still haven't put it together. It's laid out on the table, half-finished and covered with loose pieces. Why should I put this rubbish together in the first place; you slowly get used to TV anyway. Well, on an occasional night I do turn around and jerk off to the pale breasts of
the woman in the picture.
 
Some clichés have a defined ending and it hasn't been inovative here. Well, just a bit.
If I had a plane, I might crash into something. But I don't.  What a ridiculous idea at the moment. I sat on
the table so I face the wall with the picture. That way I don't see this neverending plain through the window.
The TV screen and unwashed dishes don't judge me. I only see her pale breasts. I undo the zipper and start to masturbate. When I come, I feel the rope around my neck again, I jump a little and am left hanging.
How come her long hair flutter so much when there is less and less air.