Dear Little Oval Orbs

Cold sunshine flooded the lyrical terrains of William's long-ish, yet not entirely grandiloquent, beard. A warm drizzle. William picked up the paintbrush, and gazed uncertainly at the fine bristles converging to an invisible, almost pointless point in space, and spelled out, with inflection grave, a qudrasyllabic word, emotion, state-of-existence. M-e-l-a-n-c-h-o-l-y. Melancholy, he whispered again, and refused to blink, refused to let the teardrop feel some serious stubble. A knock.

- Who is it?

- B.

- As opposed to?

- Bee.

- Come in.

Mr.B, emotionally gravid, physically inept, perched himself on William's lap.

- Do you not feel tender?

- Shut up, William. I dig you.

- Don't give me ideas.

- I thought you were a closet case?

- I'm straight as an arrow. But not quite penetrating.

- That's where the melancholy comes from?

- I shall inflict on humanity despicable humour, jokes that never quite existed.

- Fuck the broken lyricism, trying-to-be-witty depressive-shit. Let's be normal.

- And.

- One of these days, I'm going to cut you into little pieces.

- How intimidating.

The rest is, of course, history.

(Postmodernism. Bah. I'd rather meditate with Marcus Aurelius.)