Clash of the Tightasses
"I think we ought to read only the kind of books that wound and stab us ... we need the books that affect us like a disaster, that grieve us deeply, like the death of someone we loved more than ourselves, like being banished into forests far from everyone, like a suicide."
- Journals of Franz Kafka.

Not only books, perhaps. Maybe all of our life, at least for a time, should take on a the shape of sharpened key; something to cut with - ones self or other - and something to shift the lock with.

Little Girl, miss goth

She has her kitchen; a perfect order! The arrangement of utensils and the alignment of the plates. She wakes in the morning, and the ritual begins.
First she makes eggs. Goddamnit! she loves 'em. burns her hands on the stove, perhaps. no worry. She holds in her scream of pain. Looks up at the poster of Trent and pushes out between clenched teeth, "I wanted to feel something."
She returns her attention to the eggs. Salt and pepper (black of course). She pours on tabasco. "Black and red..." she sobs away.
She puts on a Smiths album, or maybe just some Manson. She sips her tea with a delicate trembling lip, so as not to disturb the songs.
Her parents have tried, and to no avail, to find her some respite from the gloom. They announce one day, "It's just the thing! We're sending you off to school!"
Some poor sap of a town folk is walking home after a long day drinking. He passes the art building of the campus of the local college - perhaps a smoke hangs limp from his mouth - and he notices...
Could it be? Did I drink myself to see images of This sort?! there is more gravy than there is grave to you, old ghost.
No. From out the front of the art building comes a far too sober young lady. Dressed all in black; red and black hair extensions; crotch-high, top of the line, imitation leather boots; a marylin manson button too.
"Holy Shit!" he cries, the cig falling to ground like a dying star. "I thought I left all you stupid bitches back in Seattle! What the hell are you doing here. oh god, oh god."

not that he's one to talk. He wears grey, black and white, for the most part. Reads Sartre in coffee shops and thinks he's real smart. but...this is just a story, and he doesn't really exist. And he would, honest be true now, try to get her in bed.
But, it's Fiction. of course.
fuck. more wine.