The Writing's on the Wall

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“Hey Geno, it’s Dad. Listen I’m just at the office, so I gotta make this quick, but I haven’t heard back from you about graduation. We haven’t heard from you in a while, actually. I hope you are staying on top of everything. You’ve...made it this far buddy, now let’s not have any sl--

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“Hey, it’s me, come on...pick up I know you’re there...anyways how is the whole muse thing going? Oozing with the existential nectar yet? I hope to god you’ve breached the realm of the true artist, cause I can’t write songs at all lately. I think it’s from hanging around with Cook too much. That guy is an alcoholic. Anyways, give me a call.

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This is an automated message from Bell mobility. You have --twenty five-- airtime minutes left this month. Bell reminds you these minutes do not roll over, and recommends you use them in the next fifteen--

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Eugene stands beside his bed watching the phone as the voicemail screen clears to his wallpaper: a space shuttle in flight. The user tosses the soaring rocket onto his desk, watching the device slide across the glass surface.

The aching in his heart forces his attention back to the novel at hand. Before him, on the bed, a stoned tablet of reality has been etched incomprehensibly with pure emotion. Though not arrived at yet, there is a perfect combination of words that will convey the feeling which he experienced. There has to be. The last couple weeks had been amongst the most intense of his life, as he has worked on this project. Some part of him, however, is forced to concede the intensity has been waning as of late. A reluctant pawn to his emotions, he falls over on his bed and falls over into the dream.