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It's funny what bought us together. Four tired legs and a wooden surface. You gave me a fantastic look of contempt with your
yellow-stained, bulging eyes peering out from behind a heavy black set of frames. Your look was as clear as someone shouting
"hello there!" or "my name is..." However, your introduction was wordless and inaudible. Your introduction would be remembered
for its hostility. "Move your books, you table-hogger," you silently screamed through your soulless windows.
joyous smirk in my eyes, I beamed back, "there you go. Grumpy sod." You sat down with a colossal slump which caused our
mutual friend, The Table to wobble unsteadily and creak slowly to the left and then to the right. A pathetic attempt to remind us It
had lost Its oak strength over the years after bitter onslaughts from children's sticky fingers bruising Its thinning legs to fool-hardy
noughts and crosses dotting Its fragile exterior and mental arithmetic retards scratching out sums on Its surface. The Table had
not seen or smelt polish since the day It had been created. When Its contours were traced over and over again with the
distinguished pride of Its master. Now, the only tracing It felt was that of fat fingers repeatedly following the hollow marks that had
been etched brazenly across Its dull brown skin: "F*** U, U C****!!!!!" It's creak was if to plead, "Please, leave me out of this."
lady, would give her cause to turn and panic. A thunderous hoarse wheeze with a triumphant several second hiss just before
your pitiful lungs gasped for more air to absorb into your rotten body. Your deep inhalation caused your obese chest and bulging
eyes to grow even larger. The grey, hairy patches of your skin seemed to be laughing at me. You emitted a stale, dark stench; a
culmination of your breath, body and hair. A power ball of odour which seeps into everything that it surrounds. A triumphant
unwashed mass who Cezanne would have been proud to know. However you, I'm sure, are talentless and futile.
clothes, my books and then seethe with anger at the small, tidy heap of chewing gum wrappers and bits of used
papers I have folded into small squares.
yellow and dirty grey. You look like a cake-mix which has been stirred but then left and forgotten. Completely unwanted
and unloved. You are so grotesque, but why do I desire to photograph you and remember you?
make out from the crooked angle you hold your paper with your swollen right hand involuntarily
shaking every few seconds.
another one. I look up to your face expecting to see you foaming at the mouth and raring to expel a saliva
clump my way. But wait, I am wrong. For these damp drops are falling from your yellow, bulging eyes. The
cholesterol-filled sacs are unwillingly shedding some of their weight. Your trembling, swollen hand
reaches up to swat them away. But it is too late. For I have seen your tears.
