Ampersands

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Chapter 3

The phone rang. I didn’t want to answer. To hell with everything.

Ringing. Ringing. Ringing.

Fuck it.

The monitor before me stills blanked. No words could invade that tired mind I have.

Ringing. Ringing. Ringing.

Am thinking of a musical piece. Ring Ring Ring. Ring Ring Rang. Should be a great post-modernism art; The Piece of Communication. I may name it so. Or may I call it “The Unbelievable Trilogy of Tripling Saints”. Where’s the post-modernism here? OK. Let’s call it “The Unbelievable Trilogy of Formatted Saints”. That looks better.

Ringing. Ringing. Ringing.

When I was young, I used to love that magical ringing of a phone, just running towards it, blooming the Hello with desperate warmth. Who’s this? And after knowing that: What’s up? Like every phone ringing, or like every door bell are giving me the new adventure, arousing questions would be amusing to know its answers, getting people whom we adore. A phone call, or unexpected visit, can bring me paradise. One day it would—I knew it.

That when I was young.

Ringing. Ringing. Ringing.

Am thinking of an upgrading for that musical masterpiece. I’ll get deferent phone sets, each with deferent tones. I’ll call myself from a cell phone I’d borrow. Then, Vola! The mixture of begging recalls. The undiscovered modern SOS signal in its highest and its most unique case ever is going on and on, creating a giant maze on the air tracing its glamorous ringing and sticky echoes. That’s the post modernism, gentlemen.

Ringing. Ringing. Ringing.

Management of failure only comes out of successful men, like you have been come out of sperm. I closed the blanked sheet and played a porn movie. I fast forwarded it till the actual fucking scene, and then raised the volume to engage the ringing.

Ringing. Ringing. Ringing.

Moaning. Moaning. Moaning

“shag me!” is sweeping into the tones of the modern SOS. That’s how I can create the music out of the shit. I began stroking my thing on the rhythm of the ringing.

Ringing, stroke. Ringing, stroke. Ringing, stroke. The everlasting harmony has been grown greater. The blonde nasty bitch seems like she’s suffering too much. That’s life, baby.

Ringing. Ringing. Ringing.

Moaning. Moaning. Moaning.

Stroking. Stroking. Stroking.

Two new elements are making the festival of life, ringing and moaning. That would be “The Graphic Music”, or “The Musical Graphic”. I remembered the first day I’ve laid on a woman’s bed, as a usual delayed eastern of 28 year old; it was “horrible” as she had said afterwards. She didn’t love music while I didn’t fell quite taken by her rabbit’s front teeth. The blonde bitch is moaning still. My hand is stroking still. The phone is ringing still.

And it kept ringing till I was about to cum. Then it stopped suddenly. Dead.

The moaning is slashing the air like a rocket. It felt the freedom at last.

It sounds horrible.

I stopped.

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