‘Tard tard tard,’ Stice says.
Group empathy is expressed via sighs, further slumping, small spastic gestures of exhaustion, the soft clanks of skulls’ backs against the lockers’ thin steel.
‘My bones are ringing the way sometimes people say their ears are ringing, I’m so tired.’
‘I’m waiting til the last possible second to even breathe. I’m not expanding the cage till driven by necessity of air.’
‘So tired it’s out of tired’s word-range,’ Pemulis says. ‘Tired just doesn’t do it.’
‘Exhausted, shot, depleted,’ says Jim Struck, grinding at his closed eye with the heel of his hand. ‘Cashed. Totalled.’
‘Look.’ Pemulis pointing at Struck. ‘It’s trying to think.’
‘A moving thing to see.’
‘Beat. Worn the heck out.’
‘Worn the fuck-all out is more like.’
‘Wrung dry. Whacked. Tuckered out. More dead than alive.’
‘None even come close, the words.’
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Pat, Pat, Pat
If my memory serves me correctly, you used to love your booze, didn’t you? I remember one of your posts where you talked about a trip to the doctor, and he asked you to cut down or whatnot. What about this trip down to memory lane? Nothing, I just want to find out if I remembered it correctly, and I’m referring to the same Pat.
Because I can see you’re still writing, and it’s a good thing I can still read you!
Cheers!
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i’ve mellowed on the booze since I grew a belly that on certain angles looks really fat and ugly. it’s also kind of embarrassing to write when under the influence. the posts tend to look fat and ugly too. 🙂
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So I still remember! That’s what I needed to validate anyway. That, and that I have a lot of back-reading to do, as far as your blog goes. Catching up.
Cheers Pat!
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