"The Boy Detective Fails" by Joe Meno

In our town—our town of shadows, our town of mystery—it seems our buildings have, without reason, begun to disappear completely. Still full of their loyal inhabitants, the buildings and the people all disintegrate soundlessly. The air has been hard to breathe, full of regret and the glassy voices of the unsurprised dead. Our commuters have begun carrying photographs of their loved ones with them to work. On the bus, we look at each other, pictures of our sad wives and doubtful children huddled close to our chests, quietly imagining the silent elaborations of our own deaths. We are disappointed coming home that evening because the many photos betray our cowardice: We live in a town that is disappearing, and worse, like the buildings, our hope is gone and we are no longer surprised by anything.

Thursday, April 9, 2009

The Boy Scholastic Got Lost in a Book

He was all to happy to be there; however, all good things... and look how hackneyed he's become! But some good may have come of it all along.

I don't like writing unless I have something to say. It's a self-indulgence that is all-too-common of people who want to make a living publishing their thoughts.---They begin to think that people care!---And I've been so tired... But I've ceased to be tired, thanks in no small part to Tati Cycles carrying Metropolis coffee now, and I've decided to get kicking once again. And expect some new read enough that I believe there could be things in my head which are worth writing. My Greek improved, my Latin atrophied, and Wittgenstein placed Bultmann in a new light which has me at once excited and afraid. The latter alread shook my world apart in ways which have made me unrecognizable to my former self.---Will this be the same?

I haven't formed these thoughts yet, so no more on them. This serves as an instrument of fear and shame so as to compell me to take the time later. Right now, I have two particularly interesting Syrophoenician women calling me. Think about it for a moment.
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