The holiday season falls hard upon this far-west suburb of hell. Snow and fog mingle in the hissing air. But the denizens of this gloaming community – buzzards or wizards all – decorate their homes and gardens with garish displays, each one more gaudy than the last. There are robot elves with flashing lighted eyes and pickled reindeer, frost frozen snow men and flaming torches in every yard.
Meanwhile, an exploded diesel locomotive rumbles through his Christmas nostalgia, and whispering voices taunt him from behind the curtain. “There will be heartburn and hemorrhoids,” they say. “There will be fruitcake.” But even this, he thinks, is better than the silence that crushes him in his sleep.
She changes the subject – from across the room – she changes the subject, but not the setting, not the void. The void is vast. The void is forever. Awkward pauses and dead air stretched into infinity.
The disconnect makes everything everything. It’s all one, and all is one snake biting its tail singularity. He is disgusted with himself. The fuse blows. The basement fills with smoke and the stars in the sky are all crooked. He will eat alone. Yes. He knows this. He will eat alone. Hunger cares nothing for the silence. One void is as good as another.
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