Titus Groan ~ Giulia Pecorari
He wanders the bare floorboards of the old house, barefoot, 3 am; like a ghost who cannot forget the worn predictable paths of his life; like a dog returning to its vomit.
He sees the events of the years spend within these confines – good, bad and simply pedestrian – sees them overlaid with a patina of sepia guilt; as if anything in the past should be represented as antique; as if guilt for his emotional immaturity; guilt for the fact that he alone remains, should be dulled by the distance between him and those events. Should be but isn’t.
The simulacrum clicks its disapproval from the corner of the living room; night-mode prohibiting it from clearing up the stale crumbs of human frailty that are left in the wake of this spectre as he passes from room to room.
He sees the events of the years spend within these confines – good, bad and simply pedestrian – sees them overlaid with a patina of sepia guilt; as if anything in the past should be represented as antique; as if guilt for his emotional immaturity; guilt for the fact that he alone remains, should be dulled by the distance between him and those events. Should be but isn’t.
The simulacrum clicks its disapproval from the corner of the living room; night-mode prohibiting it from clearing up the stale crumbs of human frailty that are left in the wake of this spectre as he passes from room to room.
Tales for an attention deficit world
