Literary Exercise # 23: Beseeched

He is a man in search of beauty, only he is unaware that it is real.

His soul is his body. Shriveled. Wrinkled. Dry. Worn out from too many nights of going up on the town and never coming down. His heart is a black hole--indescribable--with pain and misery as the only indicators that it is still beating. His hopes are a blustering desert--water is so precious, with so few cactus's to store a remnant. His life is industrialized, a coal-blackened factory. Only so many working hours for output. Not much in the way of input. His existence is, to put it lightly, unwarranted. A syllogism with a missing premise. An enthymeme late to the party and locked out, left to wail against the wall.

His soul is a missing body--forensics have arrived, but their equipment is twenty years in the coming. His heart is a black hole closing rapidly, a thin nimble of light, the aperture of apathy. His hopes are blustering past the just deserts of a thief neither Arab nor Jew, but guilty of stealing both identities, and cross-breeding patent secrets to beget a hybrid of his own. His life is industry, factoring quotients and hoping duplicity is able to escape unscathed, without a remainder to square again. His existence, to put it in the light, is un-able to secure a warranty, the mortgage making his wife uneasy, uncertain if the things unsaid will leave her virgin oil heir-less, effete and unwicked.

He is that in want of beauty, knowing this from negation.

His joke is crumbling, a jester-act tumbling down the narrow heights of insanity, of necessity. A jewel-crusted monstrosity, a scepter leveraged and forced taut into moments of dark hilarity. A scarcity--a lack--a moment before the moment of turning back, a cardinal difficulty in his facts...a strange tranquility.

He is a man that wishes to be left alone, but really to be left a home.