... continued

his head was like a balloon when he got like this. and not a helium-filled light balloon delicately bouncing around against the ceiling in the corner of the room in the draft of the oscillating fan but more a manually blown up balloon; heavier and somehow grossly more moist than its helium counterpart and not so much bouncing but rolling around on the dirty dust-ridden floor and basically empty.

he was doing the Elliott Smith eponymous. this, an album especially written for ... and other such moods.

the hf and pompous attitude and 'all is pedestrian' were defense mechanisms, protection. oh, god knows this. he knew this too, probably more than god, but he employed them with purpose. because he was sure that no one outside of a professional freudian and surely no one that he interacted with on a daily basis could ever figure it out, that they were defense mechanisms and that he was one in need of such defense. figure it out for themselves and see through his opacity. oh, they saw. he wore it, the protection, not so well - sort of like a white particulate mask. aside from saying idiot things like 'all is ped.', he over-enunciated his words and used full sentences and paragraphs only when speaking. which generally annoyed the shit out of his family members and basically everyone else that ever listened to him, especially his dog because what dog knows what the fuck "row-ell oh-verr" or "come oh-ver herrre" is?

the stylus had entered the 'alphabet town' grooves. it was a cool and dry night, first one in over a week. something about the harmonica in this one turns his heart to fine powder. the pile of which sits then still atop the liver waiting for that deep inhale - the one that signals the onset of a cry - to blow away...to disappear, the heart. disperse itself around the chest cavity, coating the lungs and back side of the sternum and ribs, and lose function. for a minute or two. poof.

but so he gets up from the desk, sitting on an exercise ball lately to ensure the lifespan of the back is +/- 10 years the lifespan of the remainder of the body, and puffs his chest out a bit with a deep inhalation. puts his shoulders back, mom always said no child of hers employed slumped shoulders, and walks slowly towards the mirror. he lets his head sort of float above his shoulders, swaying lightly as he walks. first looking at the wall. a pain in the back, lumbar but no action to alleviate. and then at the mirror, attacks the face with shitty thoughts. and rubs the sides of his head vigorously with the palms and pads of his hands. eyes shut. tight.

and maybe it was for him - the hf and 'all is ped.' - protection against himself. they were three of him, effectively. that which protected, that which needed protection, and that which observed.