White on WhiteMature

A man attempts to kill himself only to......

You ever feel like the world’s already over? Like we are living in the aftermath - one long dream. We go about our lives - times seems eternal - until it stops. We get old, we die - cancer, natural causes, other shit. Natural causes? What does that mean anyway? Life by definition requires death in some way - the infinite  end to the finite beginning - does it really matter how it happens - does not the nature of existing constitute that any exit would be natural simply due to its rout cause — every rout cause of death — life. Some wait it out-they wait for the "natural causes" others take matters into their own hands — what to they hope to gain? What re they trying to prove by exiting the dream — by being awoke.

The first thing I saw after I jumped was a lawn chair  and a pitcher of sangria — it was like I was in a backyard with no fence — they grass neatly cut — but no house in site — nothing — incased in nothingness; like some movie cliché or  a video game that uses fog to hide a bad draw distance into the background — to purposely withhold the information that’s really not there to begin with; until you walk in that direction at least; manifest reality. I was surrounded on all sides by this gradated fog lingering low in an overcast sky — like I white vignette on the outskirts of an old photo. The chair had a sign on it — it said "Sit," next to it the pitcher had its own smaller sign to fit the smaller frame of its image — it said "Drink" I drank.

The next thing I know I' on a bed, the erotic sounds of passion buzzing through the air, sweat seeping out from my brow — it touches my lip — why the hell does it taste like sangria? moving back and forth on the bed — already in the middle of the act, the girl below too high on her own pleasure to notices my confusion, screaming, moaning, aw! shit, fucking scratching me too -I don't so much feel it as see the marks on my arm. As my body moves automatically, back and forth to the rhythms of the act my sense come back to me — there is music playing in the room — loudly — not an eleven by any-means but enough to hinder or help the task. I hear the rhythm "Tem Tem Tem Tem" and notice my thighs are moving to it — that my own movements are synced to the song - then I hear the chorus "Roxanne, Roxanne" What the fuck, the "Police"? I'm banging some random chick to the rhythmic stylings  of Andy Summers on guitar  and Sting on lead vocals?  I don't know about you but the last thing I ever wanted to associate with sex was Stings voice — you know how it goes. You do something once for the sake of getting laid by some hot chick who will only pounce your ounce if you indulge her kinky side. The next thing you know you can't get it up again unless you recreate that same scene — and before you know it - you're walking into the store to buy a prescription and you hear the soothing sounds of Sting Sining "Fields of Gold", turn around to hide you're blushing face, and knock over a jar of vitamins thanks to your bonafide visitor — no thank you.

At the same time never the one to stop a good thing, I roll with it, I get into the course I hum it to myself, I keep pace — creating my own synesthesia between the rhythms of Andy Summers guitar and my thighs. Then I realize, this song is a good fucking song — easy on the in and out — to keep pace and speed. I'm  hypnotized by  this chicks prefect supple breast bouncing up and down to the same rhythm "Tem, Tem, Tem" I add her motions and moans as the lexical additions to my growing since-esis. I zone out to the chemistry  -  Then the song stops, this is when I notice that so has girls reactions — shit, what did I do - I prod at her, "Hey, Hey" - No reply. I press my head against her exposed chest — her perfect breast depressing against my ear — not thinking ahead — her nipple ending up inside of it; I realign and try again. She's not breathing, I panic — get up, oh shit what do I do — a sound — outside, flashing lights — real police — fuck, I hate irony! - I look around the room — the perfect not desrcript apartment, like something out of any stupid fucking cliché, nothing on the walls, the cd/radio in the corner, a light on-top of a dresser with a giant red button — like the ones that "Staples" sells-"Press To Escape" it says. A poster of "Dirty Dancing" on the wall. What, what the fuck? I giant red button that says "Press To Escape"? I here footsteps, lots and lots of footsteps coming upon me, I figure what the hell, I press the button — the building disappears around me leaving me standing in the middle of nothingness — stark white on white surrounds me — like a never ending cover of an issue of an old "Rolling Stone" — how does it feel indeed.....

The End

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