Hic Sunt Dracones

the smylere with the knyf under the cloke

Flights of Infancy

The phone I rang was answered by [him]. [He] echoed every single “hello” I made. The voice flippant with a hint of flagrant sardonic humour, sans the reeking sardine fragrance, complimentary of the proxy voice over the wire and wave. Not that [he] have one, at least not at that moment.

I’m in no mood to hear someone aping me, much less to have [him] picking up her phone. Never once [he] does that since I met her. Always the ever subservient porter of the magic voice box — as it rang, the perfunctory hand handed it over to her.

Perhaps it’s schadenfreude. Knowing well that I’m already reduced to a lesser subject of her affection.

No more the magus of amorous plague. Merely the pariah of delirious fugue.

Hello. Hello. Hello. Hello. Hello. Hello.

I throttled the aping sound with a silent touch of unceremonious disconnection.

I was hoping the droning white noise became a stimulus for [his] dutiful mind when it concern her mobile phone.

Hello. Hello.

It works.

Written by cthulhu

March 20, 2008 at 6:50 pm

%d bloggers like this: