Make assumptions abt me

1st Official Post
  • AllKill VIP
    • Official Post

    You enjoy reading, travel, and cooking. Years have raced past, everyone of them a wolf circling a kill. One tends to think that it’s a matter of scale, that the years used to move slower at some point, but science would say their pace has always been murderous. Black curtains have closed on so much of what you thought you would have done by now; speaking here obviously of matters love and dating, but also personal progress and things you can’t really hold measure to if you have any kindness in you at all. You enjoy outdoor activities like hiking and skiing. One time you watched a drunk tailor try to make sense of what he had marked and pinned earlier in the day with a sober eye, and that night when you were watching him from your perch upstairs across the way, his livelihood was nearly destroyed by his own hand, his tearing apart the small shop, in anger and disarray, certain it wasn’t him who chalked and pinned and cut something like this. He was looking at it all, so drunk and confounded, like he couldn’t figure out who would have done it. That’s all of us, you think, looking back at what plans we had, screaming and holding our faces in our hands. And thinking: who in the hell, of even remotely sound mind, would’ve planned and measured it like this? Rollerblading, you wanted to say, is something you actually might get into, mostly for fitness reasons. Anyway, it was around the time of watching the mad tailor that you knew a girl with a pig’s heart; she’d call you, and you’d call her. Nothing between either of you, just two people in the same neighborhood, and someone you found yourself rooting for. You have every reason to believe this girl of fouled heart died at St. Vincent’s before they started tearing it down, because this was maybe fifteen years ago now, and she hasn’t called since then. The heart, or the valves, or whatever it was that they transplanted that came from a pig, seemed like it would take, her doctors were saying. She was living, breathing, walking around on the scene and trying not to smoke or drink, calling you a couple times a week back then because you had stopped drinking around then. But then one day it seemed that suddenly these were now the years when her calls never came. That’s how the girl with the patched together heart of Frankensteined valves and stents came to disappear, to fade out so gradually, like an overcast morning. I assume you are a bit of a beach person, I should mention, in case that’s your idea of a fun summer day. you saw a beggar outside of The Vatican once, a woman so bowed and stooped and hunched, her hand a claw of tanned hide now, permanently cupped and waiting for too little to be given too late. She looked up at you like she was casting a pox or curse and you were amazed, the beauty buried in her face, all the days that must’ve marched over her. We never think of it, do we, the way time marches on, the wreckage of how it has its way with us? It doesn’t care if you were one day a handsome pimp of the Jazz Age or a beautiful whore hunted by landed gentry and its angry wives and hounds. You also enjoy biking and have played softball on your office’s team for two seasons now. You like KPop.

  • AllKill VIP
    Quote from 2yr

    You enjoy reading, travel, and cooking. Years have raced past, everyone of them a wolf circling a kill. One tends to think that it’s a matter of scale, that the years used to move slower at some point, but science would say their pace has always been murderous. Black curtains have closed on so much of what you thought you would have done by now; speaking here obviously of matters love and dating, but also personal progress and things you can’t really hold measure to if you have any kindness in you at all. You enjoy outdoor activities like hiking and skiing. One time you watched a drunk tailor try to make sense of what he had marked and pinned earlier in the day with a sober eye, and that night when you were watching him from your perch upstairs across the way, his livelihood was nearly destroyed by his own hand, his tearing apart the small shop, in anger and disarray, certain it wasn’t him who chalked and pinned and cut something like this. He was looking at it all, so drunk and confounded, like he couldn’t figure out who would have done it. That’s all of us, you think, looking back at what plans we had, screaming and holding our faces in our hands. And thinking: who in the hell, of even remotely sound mind, would’ve planned and measured it like this? Rollerblading, you wanted to say, is something you actually might get into, mostly for fitness reasons. Anyway, it was around the time of watching the mad tailor that you knew a girl with a pig’s heart; she’d call you, and you’d call her. Nothing between either of you, just two people in the same neighborhood, and someone you found yourself rooting for. You have every reason to believe this girl of fouled heart died at St. Vincent’s before they started tearing it down, because this was maybe fifteen years ago now, and she hasn’t called since then. The heart, or the valves, or whatever it was that they transplanted that came from a pig, seemed like it would take, her doctors were saying. She was living, breathing, walking around on the scene and trying not to smoke or drink, calling you a couple times a week back then because you had stopped drinking around then. But then one day it seemed that suddenly these were now the years when her calls never came. That’s how the girl with the patched together heart of Frankensteined valves and stents came to disappear, to fade out so gradually, like an overcast morning. I assume you are a bit of a beach person, I should mention, in case that’s your idea of a fun summer day. you saw a beggar outside of The Vatican once, a woman so bowed and stooped and hunched, her hand a claw of tanned hide now, permanently cupped and waiting for too little to be given too late. She looked up at you like she was casting a pox or curse and you were amazed, the beauty buried in her face, all the days that must’ve marched over her. We never think of it, do we, the way time marches on, the wreckage of how it has its way with us? It doesn’t care if you were one day a handsome pimp of the Jazz Age or a beautiful whore hunted by landed gentry and its angry wives and hounds. You also enjoy biking and have played softball on your office’s team for two seasons now. You like KPop.

    Is this user true? Is this user a spy?

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