by Eli Crow
There is not a soul in the world that could despise her.
|With her sleek postmodern hair, cropped like that—which flows so stylishly, so alluringly—an artist, she would seem. And with that subliminal flavor in her grace—so articulate, so worldly, so beautiful—there is not a soul in the world that could despise her—and she knows it; I suppose she’s always known it. Everything she owns, both material and immaterial, has simply been handed to her—on a silver platter.
Hello Jane, you look lovely today!
She speaks as an artist, too—if there ever was such a way to talk; words come to her naturally, and precisely when they want to. She is so carefree in tone, so unaffected by the common ails and laments of daily life, as if she’s never known misfortune.
Conversing with her is sublime, that is if you can keep her attention. And when you finally do, you cannot help but to send it back tenfold—ask her things, keep her interested, laud her.
Here you go; here’s my dignity on a silver platter.
But the company she prefers! Such brutes—bastardy things, less man than animal—crowd around her, hang on to every word, steal her attention and feed on it salaciously. Oh, the things they do to get her attention! They hide her from me. Vile beasts! ... But, cruel fates! We still we talk!
Casuality, painful casuality! Oh! not a soul in the world could despise her.