He’s plainly imagining an occupancy: living in all the houses in the world; a one-night-stand succession. He touches or otherwise feels cold smooth walls of a three-story house on the ocean, cross-dresses in anonymous silk sheets and, continues a search for more delicious secrets. I don’t know. Hidden torture dungeons, two hundred year old port-wine, erotic paintings secretly issuing from the Masters. More options and articles even than that.
We all wish we could fit into old pants again. Slide them on in rooms without entrance ways. Make room for a wallet. Make amends like personal-space is an invisible suit of armour.
He’d maybe admit cask-wine carpets splattered with old gen-x artefacts: canyons hacked into floorboards, sheets for curtains, a buzzing tv and fresh-pressed drugs in the fridge. Better deals waiting around the corner and / or everywhere. His course in practical horticulture certainly prepared him for identifying the impracticalities inhering in any plan, though. To hide in dusty alcoves with the purpose of witnessing intimacies, dead prime-ministers, and everyone-else’s girlfriend, for instance. There’s flaws in that.
We get all tingling when a rocking chair in an attic rocks and rocks, but only in a properly-contextualised movie. Otherwise it’s imagination and the bad sort. The rhythm of impaired genes blipping like Cradle of Filth. Um.
When the party in his own head reaches its zenith, churning behind sound-proof walls while twenty seven year old people fuck and moan (wishing it were via virtual reality suits) discussion crosses a mixing board stereoscopically, mimicking vertigo. Where’s his place in the drama? We’ll crawl out from the chimney blackened, removed socially as if skateboarders. Not thinking in airborne terms just plainly thought of. Then you realise someone is in your gazebo. Hoovering up your secrets. Kurt Cobain is writing about a crippled-girl and it makes you think. Culture is in a trough.