RE: Vis avis
01-08-2016, 07:57 AM
The cat saunters down to the next street corner, before turning to see if you're still there. Is it wanting you to follow? You should've checked the print shop's hours before heading out - every day you put it off is another for a former photography major (sick of their opening shift) to migrate south for the winter.
Fuck it. You follow the cat. It pins its begrimed ears back and skulks off, a curtailed springiness to its paces all ready to run if you close the gap too much for its liking.
Studentville is a proto-suburbia repurposed, townhouses with bare yards like the 60's got tossed in the back of a truck before being sensibly arrnage on the university's doorstep. Dog-eared, and a little disreputable from its travels and travails. Dingy only when you skirt its edges, holding it up against the municipal lines and concerted urban planning of midtown or the campus apartments. Enter the warren like you're doing now, and things do settle into an aesthetic, however grunge-ironic.
Mix with this post-apocalyptic boneyard-idyll, and you can almost envision a band writing a neo-gothic soundcloud shoegaze tribute in any one of these curtainless living rooms. The white cat is still in view, more interested in another abandoned cat watching you both from across the street. It's black with white points, and lean and glossy and vulnerable as a sealion. Grimes lowers its hackles, then keeps going where it's going. You and Seal follow along, keeping a respectful distance.
Your destination is Palomer Close, a cul-de-sac studded with strays and beer bottles. A few of the cats edge up to you, giving white-and-dirt Grimes a berth properly accorded a clear Head Bitch In Charge, but peel away after a few chin-skritches once they figure you've got no food. You keep half an eye on Grimes, who heads up the driveway of Number 9, slipping between the house and the boundary fence. Upload that place onto Rooms To Let, and expect at least one dissatisfied punter at your take on "north-facing window".
You're busy disappointing a rotating cast of cats when a noise turns feline heads: an engine. The cats desert you in a furry shoal, streaming around the house and out of sight.
The engine cuts out. You shrug, and walk up to Number 9, Palomer Close...
Fuck it. You follow the cat. It pins its begrimed ears back and skulks off, a curtailed springiness to its paces all ready to run if you close the gap too much for its liking.
Studentville is a proto-suburbia repurposed, townhouses with bare yards like the 60's got tossed in the back of a truck before being sensibly arrnage on the university's doorstep. Dog-eared, and a little disreputable from its travels and travails. Dingy only when you skirt its edges, holding it up against the municipal lines and concerted urban planning of midtown or the campus apartments. Enter the warren like you're doing now, and things do settle into an aesthetic, however grunge-ironic.
Mix with this post-apocalyptic boneyard-idyll, and you can almost envision a band writing a neo-gothic soundcloud shoegaze tribute in any one of these curtainless living rooms. The white cat is still in view, more interested in another abandoned cat watching you both from across the street. It's black with white points, and lean and glossy and vulnerable as a sealion. Grimes lowers its hackles, then keeps going where it's going. You and Seal follow along, keeping a respectful distance.
Your destination is Palomer Close, a cul-de-sac studded with strays and beer bottles. A few of the cats edge up to you, giving white-and-dirt Grimes a berth properly accorded a clear Head Bitch In Charge, but peel away after a few chin-skritches once they figure you've got no food. You keep half an eye on Grimes, who heads up the driveway of Number 9, slipping between the house and the boundary fence. Upload that place onto Rooms To Let, and expect at least one dissatisfied punter at your take on "north-facing window".
You're busy disappointing a rotating cast of cats when a noise turns feline heads: an engine. The cats desert you in a furry shoal, streaming around the house and out of sight.
The engine cuts out. You shrug, and walk up to Number 9, Palomer Close...
peace to the unsung peace to the martyrs | i'm johnny rotten appleseed
clouds is shaky love | broke as hell but i got a bunch of ringtones
eyes blood red bruise aubergine | Sue took something now Sue doesn't sleep | saint average, day in the life of
woke up in the noon smelling doom and death | out the house, great outdoors
staying warm in arctic blizzard | that's my battle 'til I get inanimate | still up in the same clothes living like a gameshow
clouds is shaky love | broke as hell but i got a bunch of ringtones
eyes blood red bruise aubergine | Sue took something now Sue doesn't sleep | saint average, day in the life of
woke up in the noon smelling doom and death | out the house, great outdoors
staying warm in arctic blizzard | that's my battle 'til I get inanimate | still up in the same clothes living like a gameshow