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RamingoWS

16 июля 2018 г., 13:30

Ring Max, she said. As if it were simple. As if I could just pick up the phone and talk to him. I couldn`t remember the last time I`d seen him other than as part of a larger group, or the last time we`d had anything like a conversation. Perphas we`d been closer at university, but I`d lost so much of that time due to an extravagant combination of recreational drugs, mania, and electroconvulsive therapy. A title for my autobiography, possibly. Or an epitaph. The ECT had sort of worked, but it had fucked my memory inside-out and upside-down. Nearly everything had come back, in time, but it had left my life a jigsaw. I had the pieces but I didn`t know what the picture was supposed to be.
University and its immediate aftermath were little more than a sensory haze. A blur of gold and green, the scent of old books, the slide of a stranger`s body against mine. Rushes of chemical rapture. The heat of a nightclub, a sweep of lights, like a peacock`s tail, bodies and heartbeats and music. I was king of a glittering world, a splintering, falling, shattering world. But what of Max? What could I remember of Max?