illusion

he says write about being the illusionists assistant. about how all things become black and smoke and mirrors. he doesn't know the effect of mirrors from the side, only the front. only the front is what you see. but where i stand i see nick, headset and black gloves sliding open trap doors in the "see completely whole stage."

all stages are built with a trap. even the highschool gym stage built 4 years ago. they dont realize why, those archetechs, they just have the traps included.

i know why with a six foot length ill be suspended over snakes. always snakes. why can't i be the one to appear on the chandiler.

and sometimes i stand, smiling petroleum jelly, wondering if the bid i made on black corset gothic is going to come through, or if some jelly-mold from Ohio will check just in time to out bid, or well maybe i should have bought it one time. she'd only wear it for her mirror. I'd reflect it in the side of this mirror.

he says i should write a short bit about sliding mirrors silently across the dark lit stage, about black lights and black suits, about black silk and his pillow. like miltons ligh that doesn't illuminate, i should illude to the traps waiting to drop me to the substage, to sub dimentions, to sprinted runs and harnesses dropping me again from the chandelier, to my likeness - she'd never wear bunny ears though - so i guess i won't either.

the mirrors inerest me. nick pushes three stage hands through the curtains to dish and receive props and i flash flash petroleum jelly at grandpa and his escort in aisle f. She's wearing bunny ears, and would never look inside the mirror. at its green glass or silver halide skin. she would check her lips and tits and be off again. always gone again. an illusion of 21.

he is an illusions trick, turning mirrorred chop box. no tricks. just illusions.

it means another day, without

and she chuckles and spins off to another dance, flashing glances longer than looking, longer enough to doubt and redoubt. andd he'd wonder if he was talking to the right woman. and she chuckles softly. a shadow of pain faulters a step and she is gone.

a ray of the sun creates a moment in activation. and then what. she looses herself at oblique angles. the very ones that once dressed a grade school cash book. the very ones she used to score pefect on. and she flashes flashes acute angles in reflecive surfaces.

a ray of the sun creates.

what are you fucking?

do you even look at the other pages?
wtf.

im not writing any more shit for a while, just indulging myself in my head. so have fun with that