Speaker one: (said unenthusiastically, it is early morning and the sky is dark, character stands under a cold light, dressed in green)
And there is was, an indistinguishable feeling not at all assumable or pleasant, not oddly enjoyable or moment worthy for causing such a delay in routine. If I had a routine it would begin with a heavy sleep, a hot sticky room and the mess at the foot of my bed not at all diminutive in character. I would lay there, near the floor of scattered books and contort in order to gaze at the murky, pale sky silhouetted with branches, to usually fall back asleep. Every morning would exist the same: eyes trying to break from slumber and a body whole heartily rejecting their request. However, today was different, not for the reason that none of these things existed (they most certainly did) but due to a strange dirge only audible through my ears, to slowly rock toward and eventually be driven mad with. It was a four beat to eight per bar: a two in four, and time dragged. Always most eloquently, always sounding tragic, always muting surroundings, individuals and places: it would persist all the same. Bit by bit by bit. Always minor, minor, diminished then major, progressed by a slow seventh: a sad singular soprano, pedal lift and a strong slow bass assuming its role as pilot. Repeat in four. The cycle was beautiful. Each note was known and therefore became a predictable march in which my feet were forced to move slowly toward.
And there is was, an indistinguishable feeling not at all assumable or pleasant, not oddly enjoyable or moment worthy for causing such a delay in routine. If I had a routine it would begin with a heavy sleep, a hot sticky room and the mess at the foot of my bed not at all diminutive in character. I would lay there, near the floor of scattered books and contort in order to gaze at the murky, pale sky silhouetted with branches, to usually fall back asleep. Every morning would exist the same: eyes trying to break from slumber and a body whole heartily rejecting their request. However, today was different, not for the reason that none of these things existed (they most certainly did) but due to a strange dirge only audible through my ears, to slowly rock toward and eventually be driven mad with. It was a four beat to eight per bar: a two in four, and time dragged. Always most eloquently, always sounding tragic, always muting surroundings, individuals and places: it would persist all the same. Bit by bit by bit. Always minor, minor, diminished then major, progressed by a slow seventh: a sad singular soprano, pedal lift and a strong slow bass assuming its role as pilot. Repeat in four. The cycle was beautiful. Each note was known and therefore became a predictable march in which my feet were forced to move slowly toward.
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