the lip of the slash

i looked at the formal note. for he has the habit of a formal tone when the matter is grave. it makes me laugh. like there was a butler to discreetly leave the note on a silver tray in my cell phone, and in type, i was able to see the flourishes of gs and fs of the not-handwritten message.

i can't reply that i want to laugh

in a futile friendship, you make futile attempts and i allow myself to be tempted by futility. it is all very tempting. the idea of temptation combined with futility. without which my life would not be less interrupted. i could see you think i'm interrupted. are you so lonely? does your partner not talk to you? life is not true. you have too much common sense. i could see you once in a while and watch my mind through your eyes. it doesn't hurt. i could listen to you. until one day i realized for a moment that your words were full of feelings. misguided feelings. then silence falls upon us. hangs down like a sudden flood of theater curtains, heavy as lead. and when you break the silence, for you always do, i realize it's because, like a psycho-anaylst, you would never abandon me no matter how cautious you are of the idea of me as a habit. no matter what mean things i say, you would not be mad with me as you can see, in my mind, that you are meaner.

we got to make a start somewhere. the lip of the slash. after fearing that people who talked to her might realize that her mind was gone and collecting suicide articles and whatnots, the protagonist decided to make a start one morning. she brought the blade down to her calf, and watched the blood. from the lip of the slash. oozed and trickled to her black patent leather shoe. she felt nothing.

we would feel nothing too. if we make a start somewhere for an end. if we even observe the silence at all. try not to break the silence. pretend it's not there.