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Arcadian Skies

….and then the doorbell rings. I open the door to Reginald Dixon of the Tower ballroom, King Vidor, and Rosaline Mclean (Queen of the extreme). There they stood, in the guise of sale people, but I recognise them for who they are.
From what I was able to gather, they seem to be simultaneously offering me a great deal on double glazing, a reduction in electricity bills, and eternal salvation, all for one easy down payment of something I found difficult to understand regarding a commitment by myself that involved a performance by Rosaline, filmed in 3D and superior sharp contrasting monochrome by King. A backing track would then be supplied by Reginald on the Wurlitzer. This also involved some sort of re-editing of my imagination, with the loss of the Cheeky Girls naked snowball fight in the ski slopes of the Carpathians. They each took turns to explain the benefits of the deal in a proficient manner and in a persuasive tone, but the offer and its cost remained incomprehensible to me.
I looked past them to the street, and everything seemed as it always did on any weekday in the late afternoon.
When I turned back to them, Reginald and King’s eyes appeared to have sunk a little, and a small maggot was tracing its way down Rosaline’s waxy cheek like an infected tear. The distinctly sweet smell of decay that was emanating from the trio served to remind me that they had all been expired for considerable time.
‘God save me from dead celebrities’ I thought, ‘the high flown and the fly blown’.
I politely told them I was not really interested and avoiding their looks of disappointment, anger, or desperation, I closed the door. I’m not going to be fooled by the likes of them again.
When I close the door, I am able to close off the outside world. I can’t be bothered with anything at the moment really, not anything that demands any attention or effort on my behalf.
I climb the stairs and enter the bedroom, undress, and lie upon the cool quilt of pig livers. I shut my eyes and relax in the twilight, listening to the frantic scratching and splashing of a rat drowning in the hot water tank in the attic, as the damson clouds dissolve the lingering light of day.

25 Jan 10

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A title change and slight alterations
 — matrinh20