Stream of Consciousness: Test 2



Stream of Consciousness: Test 2


The crashing of bell bronze was more ferocious than I’d seen before. Lisa – she was only ever around in the summers when she could get away – and I had taken the quickest ciggie break ever before missing the rest of dress before it got this heavy. Finally, with the lights bright, searing the tent, we could see all four of them at both their best and worst. Musicians at their most practised; egos at their biggest, each thinking they were subtly mouthing to Ed in Tech to turn them up, with Ed looking at us and rolling his eyes, having slaved away in check to get it sorted. We loved them and breathed them but you could almost see their egos snaking around their feet with all the black leads and cables. No bother. We were too drunk and high to care, standing there in denim shorts and stolen t-shirts, ripped intentionally, watching from the sidelines. The promise of glamour and laughter when the sun died was more than worth the band’s collective neurosis. They wouldn’t be around soon.

Lisa’s picked the bad boy. But then, who wouldn’t? It’s the fairytale  fetish Disney never tell you: finding out that the one who wants to get away, doesn’t. Because of you. She stands there for every date with her mouth open. There’s a whole blend of pale peaches, browns, peaches and translucent plastic stretched over circles and wood and old bones. Each. Time. It. Would. Rise. And. Fall.  And rise. And fall. And rise and fall and rise and fall and BANG BANG BANG BANG! He took faster hits, he hit it again and the skin rose and fell, rose and fell, rose and fell until the beats were swept up with the metal smashing up and swirling in the air with everything else.  It was his best performance.

The bus started up its engines the next morning and fouled his mood. It wasn’t until I caught Lisa crying, just watching him laying next to empty bottles of single malt and shit pills that we realised, he really, really wanted it to be his last.


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