FFC Jan 2021


Jan 12, 2021
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Mark Edison had been up late that night chain smoking in the comfort of his bedroom thinking about nihilism as a philosophical inclination and pragmatism as an actual pursuit. The loneliness of his writing studio seemed rough and arrogant rather than smooth like veil and chocolate. The cement mason's down the street seemed particularly perturbed. His mind racing in many different directions. The script was halted in his thoughts. The earth spinning always spinning on it's axis like a dime in the street or a whore on a filthy mattress in the back of his studio who now lay dead from the knife wounds he had inflicted on her smooth naked flesh. Her areola's still fresh in his mouth the cold chill taste of milk, the undressing of her body. he was a murderer there was no doubt about that and so was Jacob Rubenstein the character in his script. wonder among wonders. Mark felt perturbed of that he was sure. Dead was the night like ice in the whiskey on the sink the bottle drained. What purpose did she serve him? what Pleasure did she bring?