Music. Images. Words.

Contentment [Sulk Station]

Mocking chorus plays in the background. Do you dare?, the voices of a woman call out as she bends her waist like a broken biscuit.

The room is dark. Curtains shut against the bright yellow outside. Like a lazy summer her voice drawls out in the cool of the dark afternoon. A created reality. A mountain of smoke and silk rises gray, muffling the mockery. Another enters and shouts to be redeemed. Then fades and static rain. Encircling her mountain and evaporating it.

The mocking woman is back. But sad now. Cautious. Full of warnings.

A song echoes against the rain. Rain which falls clear against asphalt. Tin roofs. The bed is soaked and bouncy. Fluffed up from the dampness. Empty metal photo frames dance and smash.

Rain rain more rain. A rain from the beginnning of the universe. Rain of static electricity. Rain of alacrity. Wind whooshes turning the pages of an ancient book. Beginning a new story. 

The scene dissolves. 

It is an empty road bathed in yellow light. Yellow light from the streetlamps. Quiet rain grows louder. Someone hits the road in the distance. It is moving now. On a motorbike. And now four of them. Throttling, threatening. Encircling like rapists. Mechanical monsters. The road becomes a whirlpool. A black hole. Sucking everything in as her voice tries to escape. Like a Siren luring innocent shipmen to wreck.

And then nothing. Except the fading memory of a maelstorm. Punctuated by the stray sound of an occasional throttle. Which then flees into the minute cracks in front of it, to another dimension. Rain is gone, leaving behind the hint of static in the air that tastes like salt on the tongue. White noise, they call it.


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