Hey guys, best and best all around! I just finished my novel (of course, in the roughest form possible; much much editing awaits). All I can say is boawouduhadoifeoijohqaui bf uoiwehfohaodighiuwh foihqdoui fhopaid hf uiqhweiuf jioefqo2~!!!@%%#^&#%^*$#@!!! Yes, that's a word (look it up scrabble maven). In a celebratory manner, I have posted a paragraph from its final segment. I know it may be rough and it may seem hard to put into context, but basically the immortal is finally dying as the universe dies itself and he is remembering bits and pieces of his life. There. Now I'm off to sit on my balcony, listen to some music, drink a Newcastle, and think about seven years of writing this motherloving fiction angel. Peace and love.
Come on back, the band leader declared. It’s as if we can never go away, never fade, the immortal told himself, and blared on his trumpet. There was a time unequal to all others where he blew brass across a hot muggy night. Back back before fire and fine cars lasered around the countryside, before flying contraptions and the blank stare of satellites had killed any mitigating silence. Back the first time around, when the world was young, when man was still new and inexperienced. The night of the jazz solo. The immortal took his fine trumpet, buffed it in-between songs, and was content to look out amongst the crowd. As the sweet mist of music developed again, he closed his eyes. Blue notes, he felt, red ones and the buggy yellow. He sighed and leaned back as the helm of his horn lifted through the air. This was not his band, but he was a famous face in the crowd. He made the room spin. A cat dizzy and loose. Oh fresh, the band leader spoke again and again. Roared. The room was a divot, a whirling dervish spun mad with lust for the sweat of a good woman, a good man. The lovers in the corner did not raise their nods. Eyes were made to be lost in other eyes, of course. The music spoke and it preached, and the lovers in the corner did not move. Hand in hand, the immortal wanted to be his actual horn, the air of his lungs. He thought of nothing. He left life, left living, left the club and the night stairwell, the booze so free, and he floated into the ether. This was the want of his entire life. He figured the future then, how many children, the barge of buildings, a flow and note of time lost, the cosmos, the fleeting chance for violence and beautiful surrender, and went up into the spinning fan blades. Ice in drinks. Young things still on the prowl outside. His face was a fire, his lips a torrent of heat. The trumpet sounded out as all other instruments faded. “If I am to come back, let me be free,” the immortal hissed, balled into himself in the dying present. The universe was dying, oh it is dead, oh god. The trumpets of the past have all gone wah wah wah.
