into non-oblivion in order so that oblivion may proclaim, “i am”.                             the assumption being, that living things are aware enough                                            to make such a proclamation. (cont.)                             abelard richter ; independent ; semi-selective ; multi-verse

Half-dead or something of the like, slung over his torn leather sofa like an old, useless, waste of semen. The record player’s needle is caught in one of the grooves, I guess, and it’s bouncing this unpleasantly shrill sound off the walls of these tiny confines. It’s supposed to be a song from Houses of the Holy but it sounds more like Houses of Hell. Abel’s House of Hell. Our orphan would have spaced out for a good ten minutes more if it weren’t for the vibrations coming from his ass. His ass is vibrating. When will he ever get used to that. He’s almost too weak to pull the casket personified that’s his sleep-deprived self up, and when he does, the fine text he reads has a little glint of amusement tickling dry lips. A shaky thumb replies, slowly replies “not much of anything” and he returns to his meditative state. If you can even call it that.

He’s caught marveling over the way lively gold embers reduce themselves to nothing more than a dull, sullen grey with a simple inhale and flick of his finger. His eyes are all bleary with fascination, clouded even—are they——bloodshot? Of course they are. Of course he’s high. He’s always smoking something. Drinking something. Fucking himself over!!! The approach of a stranger doesn’t seem to catch him off guard, much. He’s just going to talk to them as if they’ve been at his side all along."Kayden. You a foreigner, too?" A brief pause for an attempt to collect his thoughts. "—’m Abel." He’ll take the other’s significantly smaller, more dainty hand into his own now, bony fingers tucking around the boy’s palm fondly. A shake or two. Release. He can’t remember the last time someone actually offered him a handshake for a greeting. "What made you wanna come over here? H—m? Were y’ naturally drawn to me?”

  "Yeah, well. We do—so learn about it." Slurred words tumble from dry lips with his signature shoulder-shaking laugh. The poor boy's become so weak the past couple of months that laughter is like a stab in the heart. Laughing is so, so painful. Alcohol has a way of numbing that, though. He's an addict, he's terrible but the numbing is—oh, it's so sweet. It's so—alleviating. Why do you think he's always piss drunk??   The freckled boy's practically laying on the other male now, too-long gone to care in the slightest; to give a fraction of a fuck! He's got a bottle of Hite in his hand (which he's nursed so tenderly—it's near empty), condensation tinkering down the shaft and staining his corduroys. The other arm remains coiled around the other, giving his shoulder an awkward pat. Or two. Or three. It's following the beat of the song so obnoxiously infiltrating their young brains.   "You're warm. 'n smell like...uh, a field of...sweet-smelling things. I'd like to live there." Now he's just speaking pure nonsense, capturing the bottle between his knobby knees to free up his hand. From there, bony digits twist through his own disheveled nest of brown curls, raking his bangs back only to have them return to their duty of  almost completely sheathing his eyes. "You want the rest of this?" He's referring to his drink. The one between his legs. Charming, Abel.

   ——Oh. Yes, he’d forgotten about the social norms within the company. When you see someone you haven’t yet talked to, it’s not unusual to make yourself known. Abel doesn’t do that, though. He’s more of a don’t speak unless spoken to sorta character. Even so, he’ll offer the shorter male a smile of his own, hand raising to flick messy, curly bangs out of his eyes.   ”Hi, yeah. It’s Abel. You’re—hm.” A beat for him to cock his head to the side. Maybe suck his teeth a little.  “I’ve seen your face before but I can’t seem t’ put a name to it. Mind helping me out? I apologize.” 

   If he'd known it was going to rain, he wouldn't have chosen today to walk home. The setting sun accompanied by rain clouds bathes the sky in sullen shades of deep purple, orange, and yellow. It's pretty. Fascinating, even. It's rare to see the weather like this. Reminds him of that one song by Creedence Clearwater Revival—a group from the late sixties. Abel's kind of music. Come to think of it, he can't even name one other song by them.    He's sitting by himself in the lobby, his bony form sunken right into one of the sofas. Calloused fingers pick idly at strings on his guitar as he watches water droplets race to the bottom of the window pane through amber-flecked hues. He feels like singing. He'll maybe just mumble a few lines of a song while he strums because his voice is pretty terrible. From all the smoking, I mean. Hell, from all sorts of different toxins tearing down his throat. It's not even just his singing—his speaking voice has been weakened since he'd started aggressively drinking. He's one tragic, pitiful mess of a boy.  And he'll continue on with this half-hearted singing of his until he's met with the presence of a stranger. His voice'll fade out. Pretend like he wasn't singing just then.

   It's so ridiculously hot out and he may or may not have previously sucked the life from a joint twenty-minutes prior. Unruly curls of brown stick to the back of the boy's neck with the assistance of sweat, and the stretched-out collar of his t-shirt hangs loose around his neck. The two are sitting on the floor with their backs up against the old leather sofa in his apartment. He'd made an attempt to get some air flowing in the room earlier, but ended up terribly fascinated by the way the window screeching somewhat resembled the bray of a donkey. Stood by the window for at least a minute.    But the wind ended up being humid so he'd decided the fan would be their best bet. The air conditioning's down for maintenance. Of course he tried communicating with her through "alien-speak", which was him simply talking into the osculating fan. Oh, he has too much fun when he's high.   He's settled down a little now, more intrigued by the paranormal-esque stories spewing from her lips with enthusiasm. She's telling him things she probably wouldn't if it weren't for his intoxicated state. If it weren't for her intoxicated state. Wait—he can't even remember if she'd gotten high or not. This doesn't seem to trouble him too much.    "So——you're saying, you're not a vampire, but—something else, right?"    

   He doesn't really eat a lot.  He'd much rather treat himself to a drink of the alcoholic variety or even a drag on the ol' cancer stick. A joint if he's feeling scandalous. But his mother's noticed how skinny he's been getting and she's worried about his health. Says he needs more meat on his bones. If only the poor woman had a clue.    So here he is, his bony ass perched upon one of the leather booth-seats of his company's cafeteria. He's weaving his chopsticks between pasta noodles—a German dish made by his mother—watching them slither between narrow gaps and settle back into the container. More importantly, he's watching how his hands shake as he does it. It's subtle—maybe only noticeable if you lean in real close, perhaps narrow your eyes a lil' bit. It's usually worse than this, but the orphan's trying his best to keep his jitters under control. He dislikes being asked about it by strangers. I'm an addict going through withdrawals is never a good first impression.    The place is nearly empty. Most of his label-mates are busy with schedules at this hour and luckily for him, Toy Train doesn't have schedules to attend. Being an indie group, they're pretty free-spirited, boundless—which he prefers. His heart aches for the trainees who have to take on dance practice, vocal practice, acting, and languages all in one day. And a lot of them do.    That's it—he can't eat this. There's a boy at the end of his table. He'll ask him if he wants his food. Tell him that he hasn't touched it.

   He's still hungover from the previous night and he has absolutely no reason to be here other than his vaguely obsessive-compulsive desire to sabotage himself. Pathetic. Just because you have a bottle of perfectly aged whiskey in your possession, and you know you can down all of it straight without as much as a glimmer of discomfort, doesn't mean you should do it. With all the alcohol he drinks you think he'd know better. And he——does.    His head is pounding. Both because of the hangover and the sound of a stranger's slurred, drunken attempt to project their wretched vocals into a poor quality karaoke mic. Of all nights to get re-drunk—of all bars he could have chosen—he ended up choosing one with "open mic night".    The light haze of intoxication fogging his mind renders him terribly curious. Makes us wonder how drunk!Abel can be even more knowledge-hungry than sober!Abel. He's always been this way—wanting to know the science of things. Wanting to know why things are they way they are. Sober Abel would probably not think twice to thoroughly analyze the sticky, beer-strained counter top, but drunk Abel does and it goes like this; heavy-head lifting, calloused finger tips tracing over the scratches of varnished wood. Dim eyes observing the various knots etched into it, following their swirls and round-a-bouts. Heart pine, he identifies. It's nice.   Nope. His head hurts too much. He'll lay back down, now.

// ???¿ weird kid.

// oh, gosh. haha. it was around four months, I believe. but even back then I was going through a dry spell inspiration-wise so he wasn’t around as often. I didn’t think he was that admired! i’ll try and be as active as possible and write to the best of my ability so I don’t disappoint you. :’) much love.