12-13-2016, 12:00 PM
what will your mummy sing when they find your body?
When you forget that this was the coming a new kind of storm, you can perhaps remember what you are looking for when you see a friendly face. You notice her—white, perfect porcelain body cut like hard marble against the landscape. You wonder; you feel something, but it is all a lie. It is inception. Nothing is real. Nothing…
Epithet moves with grace, her crystalline wings fluttering with light next to her body, attached to her by nothing more than the air that washes over them in flight. No one can see the way she moves with sadness—she would not allow that. The cracks in the armor, that perfect casting. Epithet smiles a sad smile, covering her face as she turns away from you, and moves in the opposite direction.
Sad Clown knows all…
And while she considers her path, she considers more immediately on what she should have for dinner. Her stomach, like her soul, is empty, and she growls allowed for some vegetation. Barley, Alfalfa. Oatmeal? Peas porrage hot, peas porrage cold. Sad clown want food, growing old. Cracked porcelain, cracked armor.
They must not be allowed to see.
Conceal, don’t feel. Don’t let it show.
Happy Clown, Sad Clown. Comedy; Tragedy? Epithet knows nothing. Inside her muddled head is just mud, mud, mud. The clockwork and gears whirring, whirring, whirring. She can’t make sense of it; can’t make sense of it. And yet, this is the coming of a new day. She can see over the horizon. Yes, new day it is. Beqanna, the meadow.
Her daughter was around somewhere; did she leave? Yes, yes I think she did. Epithet jerks and moves with grace (not really—she stumbles drunk) and flaps her wings (dragging through the mud). She’s looking for something. Looking, Looking.
Will she find it?
She is alone, broken. Sad. Sad, happy, happy sad. Looking for friends. Looking for lovers. Beautiful day (mud). Who will join her? Is there anyone there?
Come out, come out, wherever you are!
Epithet