Escapism

"When there's nothing left to burn you have to set yourself on fire" Douglas Campbell

An artist dies. His wife shoots her brains out the kitchen window.

The ivy covering the façade leads a thin dense stream of blood all the way to the first floor.

Below, a red-haired girl stands against a hedge - her eyes filled with sorrow, the tip of her nipples piercing gently through her black sweat soaked sweater. Small pieces of brain fall upon her beautiful unsuspecting head.

Just across, a man wearing tight jeans and a black-leather jacket steps out of the bus at its last station and walks away even further. He is beyond lost - in his path, in his mind and in his heart. A nobody going towards the nowhere. 

The wavy blood stream makes its way onto the pavement, under and between the legs of the red-haired girl - reflecting her desperate look just for one moment - onto the streets, escaping through the person-hole, beneath the bus, into the sewage.

A couple of crawls on the elbows away, in the neighbouring building, close to the top floor but not quite at it, if you are to push open the old putrid wooden door - which, if you stand still and quiet enough, resonates the many crunching teeth of the many termites - you will reveal a house-full of moths. Inside it resides a man whose only joy in life is to keep his only two remaining corroded-teeth as clean as possible. His front teeth makes him look like a bunny rabbit, or even something more sinister - a sewage rat. Which would be of amusement since the tap water he is using for rinsing is of sewery-nature, now with a sour-sweet taste of blood.

Through the open window a moth escapes - one of its wings heavy and imbued with water from passing under the tap - and sits to rests its tiny lungs and fragile feet on the wool-shoulder of a young man standing on the edge of the roof, right above the hare-looking man.

Hanging in rags, counting bruises and cuts, a drunk whose only definition of life is the nasty part between drinking that starts and ends with a fine drink is positioned, within two inches of error, unknowingly, to save the young man's life. A nifty-bow, a careful lunge, a head-forth dive, inertia and then a combination of sounds: several cracks, a meat-hitting-meat sound, a meat-hitting-concrete sound and a suppressed shout.

A grog-soaked, salt-covered grand frigate sinks, the sloop built to keep afloat raises its sails once more. A young man learns that if something is impossible to reach, the most likely route towards it doesn't count as most likely anymore - in a world that is not yours or a you that is not of this world, despite the illusion, there is no  place to run to and no place to run from - you are trapped between what you could have and what you want, what you dislike and what you need to lose.