you're not fooling me.
“ yeah? .. losin' my touch. ” phrase deployed as countermeasure, a flare shot sideways to divert attention from the fault line yawning beneath his feet. it is simply remarkable GROTESQUE, EVEN how these offhanded syllables are weaponized, how irony is load-bearing. hopper's mouth twists into something that could resemble a smile if viewed from a sufficient distance. he does not meet joyce's eyes, vision is selective, omission an art form. [ this is how to mask. ] the floor remains obediently solid and the walls unmoving. “ i'm fine. drop it. ” a command, closure in punctuations alone. fine a soft and deceptively mild adjective functions here as a SACRAMENT, a consecrated lie repeated so often it has achieved a certain doctrine. fine is the sound of a door locking from the inside. fine is a preemptive strike.
hopper has long since learned that to speak of a thing, it gives it mass. however, the thing about joyce is that she's lived inside aftermaths long enough to recognize this prelude of his.
