Brutalist writing

Unsheath the weapon. Feel the coldness. The mind is free. The mind begins to wander. The sands stretch low and far. Waves of torment grip your shoulders.

Inside, the intercom wanes. The computer whirs to life. Finally, the school year ends. At home, the soup is warm. Your mother looks at you. The faux chandelier glows. The plate shrieks. The fork is dragged. The food is soft. The sink is noisy. The dishes are unfinished. The room is yellow. The door slams shut. Your foot aches. The wall is collapsing. The rope is tightening.

She weeps. It’s time to let her go. The money is already spent. The concert tickets rot in your wallet. Her dark hair bobs gently. The metronome clicks. Tick tock. The concert is over. The money is spent. Her time becomes valuable. Her time becomes hers, again.

The cigarette burns your fingers. The cherry is close to your fingertips. It’s winter now. The bonfire lights your face. The friends dance around the fire. The alcohol stings your stomach. Your neck aches. Your eyes are puffy. The wind bites you through your clothes.

It is happening. It is not yet here. Somewhere, a little boy sits backstage. He practices crying. The crowd looks on, in awe. The silence is loud. The claps are echoing. The stage-lights are oppressing you.

The camera sits on a tripod. It yearns to be used. The days go on. The money is spent. Another camera takes its place. And then another. And then another. And then another.

The ideas burn. The kitchen wanes. The people pass on. They find new life in other people. They find new life in other conversations. The days get longer. The watch beeps. Each hour passing feeling like a lifetime. The phone screen is bright. The phone screen is sickly yellow. The television pangs through the glass pan. The glass shatters.