phew
Week one of exams are over *passes out* I have one more next week and then I'm free!!!
meh, lol....i'm bored. i guess u r 2...so here's some writey's for ur viewing pleasure.
BISTRO
An unnamed tune wafts out into the warm breeze. Along with the tune, cigar smoke, thick, blue and curling flows gently out into the air, dissipating into nothingness.
The pianist instructs the tune. Long elegant fingers saunter over the aged and yellowed ivory keys of the grand piano and command the music.
People are seated both indoors and out. All looking like caricatures of themselves, grandiose faces, elongated noses, half opened lashes, wry half smiles on their mouths. Pompous gestures wave airily at equally pompous acquaintances.
Semi-drunken fingers rest gaily on brandy snifters and port glasses.
Alcohol, strong and viscous, swirls in the glasses. The creatures, these outlandish, lavish people, raise their glasses to each other and to their lips.
Random conversations melt into one another, making no sense.
Men courting women, men purchasing courtesans, women scoffing at women.
Gossip. Song. Love. Looks. Gestures.
Too much rouge. A woman by herself. Alone, but not lonely, propositioned constantly and constantly turning down propositions. No drunks. Drunks have no money. Eccentrics. Opium smokers. Absinthe hounds.
Chestnut brown hair, ringlets and long. Smooth and remarkably well kept, for a whore. Expensive clothing adorns her somewhat curved frame. A tightly laced corset, all crimson and velvet. Lace and beauty. Skirts flow, petticoats silken. Cream and crimson.
A man comes along. Well dressed, of course. His scent, rich and spicy. Cuban, tanned. For a man, he is elegant. Takes the hand of his chosen whore and leads her away.
He leads her to god knows what. No one knows for certain. Not love. Not even lovemaking. Money and faux love. Sweat and scent. Raw, emotive, yet unfeeling.
Laughs. Song. Gossip.
The caricatures, thinly drawn and badly coloured, continue on with their shallow, hollowed lives of drink and supposed merriment.
They care not for the courtesan. The whore girl. Woman. Most people don’t acknowledge her existence.
She leaves and they continue. Speech about too much rouge. No one cares.
They’ll go home drunk and she’ll leave richer, though poorer at the same time.
No one cares for those stick figures, just as no one cares for the whore.
END
7-7-04
meh, lol....i'm bored. i guess u r 2...so here's some writey's for ur viewing pleasure.
BISTRO
An unnamed tune wafts out into the warm breeze. Along with the tune, cigar smoke, thick, blue and curling flows gently out into the air, dissipating into nothingness.
The pianist instructs the tune. Long elegant fingers saunter over the aged and yellowed ivory keys of the grand piano and command the music.
People are seated both indoors and out. All looking like caricatures of themselves, grandiose faces, elongated noses, half opened lashes, wry half smiles on their mouths. Pompous gestures wave airily at equally pompous acquaintances.
Semi-drunken fingers rest gaily on brandy snifters and port glasses.
Alcohol, strong and viscous, swirls in the glasses. The creatures, these outlandish, lavish people, raise their glasses to each other and to their lips.
Random conversations melt into one another, making no sense.
Men courting women, men purchasing courtesans, women scoffing at women.
Gossip. Song. Love. Looks. Gestures.
Too much rouge. A woman by herself. Alone, but not lonely, propositioned constantly and constantly turning down propositions. No drunks. Drunks have no money. Eccentrics. Opium smokers. Absinthe hounds.
Chestnut brown hair, ringlets and long. Smooth and remarkably well kept, for a whore. Expensive clothing adorns her somewhat curved frame. A tightly laced corset, all crimson and velvet. Lace and beauty. Skirts flow, petticoats silken. Cream and crimson.
A man comes along. Well dressed, of course. His scent, rich and spicy. Cuban, tanned. For a man, he is elegant. Takes the hand of his chosen whore and leads her away.
He leads her to god knows what. No one knows for certain. Not love. Not even lovemaking. Money and faux love. Sweat and scent. Raw, emotive, yet unfeeling.
Laughs. Song. Gossip.
The caricatures, thinly drawn and badly coloured, continue on with their shallow, hollowed lives of drink and supposed merriment.
They care not for the courtesan. The whore girl. Woman. Most people don’t acknowledge her existence.
She leaves and they continue. Speech about too much rouge. No one cares.
They’ll go home drunk and she’ll leave richer, though poorer at the same time.
No one cares for those stick figures, just as no one cares for the whore.
END
7-7-04