Partial Responsibility
Compartmentalization has never been so evident than in the places we dwell. Every chamber presents facility of different natures: a purpose unto itself for each need, although these are really empty spaces, unoccupied by the task of self-justification.
This isn’t really the best place to begin; being jumbled with inept phraseology known only to its utterer presents nothing but nothing.
To begin anew. Mitchell’s apartment was ablaze in fiestadom. Gaiety: Mitchell was chopping some type of vegetables, bitter in nature. The scent of peppers and peanuts cloyed sociably as tribal rhythms emanated from speakers positioned across the oblong chamber, rippling the delicious, bitter, salty molecules like spicy buoys of sweat on a breaking heat wave. Like a sensory organ, the scent writhed its way into the stringy african rug haphazardly sprawled across the further half of the room at its leisure, to silently wither there largely unappreciated for weeks. Mitchell scraped his wooden, condensed chopping block with his ginsu knife as though it were a washboard, drinking in his reflection cast at his eyes from the spectacular window that stamped itself upon the lefthand wall. The dishwasher gurgled its approval of the man’s unfailing need for validity. Here was a true gourmand of the soul, a man who slurped hungrily at the bowl of the spoon of good humour and asked for nothing yet agreed heartily with the plenipotentiary characteristics of his llifestyle. Mitchell, you see, was a drug dealer, and quite one at that. In the bathroom, down the hall, cold and blue and motionless lay the garrotted body of a formerly coked-out stripper who’d slipped and fell somewhere near the middle rung of fortune’s ladder: reknowned for her prodigious ability to convey extraordinary pleasure with but a twist of her tongue in every circle seedy enough to require such services yet tasteful and of means enough to discriminate in terms of the felicity and fineness of fellation, and not quite half out of the manhole leading from the sewers of blowing pimps, businessmen and politicians to the glorious daylit golden-paved streets of blowing record and movie producers. Needless to say, this fall proved to snap her emaciated neck like a fine gentleman gingerly cracking in two the wishbone he holds pinched at each end between two tapered, lily-white fingers. Such things are generally distasteful to speak of, though, so the corpse slumping away in Mitchell’s tub will be left to its own devices while other things are spoken of.
Other things? Non, ami mon velour. That is for later.
