"C'mon c'mon! let it out!"
But he had nothing to let out; in fact, the silence and lack of words ill-ustrated a void and emptiness of useless consumption and oxygen expenditure. He was tired of words and theories and rationale and explaining and saying things that ended as sounding brass or tinkling cymbals. He then then said something about a ticking clock inside his mind and something about a gun to his head, something melodramatic and stupid. He said something about it being him, referring to his embarrassingly debilitating libido. She said he was a just sad man, a lonely sad and organized book shelve man. A hide from the world man. A not even a man man. A slowly devolving primate man. A man too preoccupied with silly thoughts man.
He wiped his glasses; then, he twiddled his thumbs thinking about words while she pinched and packed tobacco fibers into a nicely rolled cigarette. She saw through him; he had a feeling that she could do this.
Everything quivered in place. The driving of cars on the i10 echoed up to the terrace; a receding siren cried out as it snaked south. The signal tower red light bulb receded in and out of the night canvas, like the phosphorescent searing embers building a mountain of grey ash on the tray.
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