He sat in the whitewashed room tapping his fingers on the desk in rapid succession, the line running through his head.
I hate you. I hate you. I hate you. I hate-
It sat on replay as he stared down at the mike. A dead beat strummed through the speakers, more electronic than music to him any more.
There was so much more that needed saying, and so much less, but he wasn’t going to fix any of it. Instead it would all fester, rot in his chest like fermenting fruit ready to intoxicate him into oblivion.
Fuck. Obscenities sweet on the tongue and another song rolling around in his brain, but too late.
Too late to take it back, too late to say the right thing. Too late.
And staccato they roll over the oak wood,
Hollow they fall on the keyboard.
Echoes are his voice in the mike.
Echoes are his voice in the mike.
And really, what’s 16 bars at the heart of it?
Just more words that wouldn’t be said.
-Inspired by 2Brain
