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rupert "miles" glass (clowning) wrote in bellumlogs,

"What talents do I have?" The eyes once closed before snapped open and alert like the pulling paper curtain of a window outstretched and abruptly let go. There was a very concise masquerade that'd occurred in a lentissimo fantasyland of unsteadiness, to boot, an array of masks made mostly to look like animals. Sprawling now on the sticky floor of his vivid ingenuity, the attention that had phoenix'd back to the present was pointed like an aztecs dagger. He'd not let himself be troubled with imagining places elsewhere while feeling dizzy! "That's a rather odd question which could be confused in a quieter mind, but fortunately for you, my mind's unquiet. How to answer that precisely is what's going to be the feat."

Bringing both of his lips into his mouth, he slowly began to rove his eyes upward as if there may be a helpful hint, formula, or a technical breakdown of his talents there upon the ceiling, 100% in list form, and conveniently located just above. Wouldn't that be nice? Perhaps, comfortably snuggled with the asbestos, there could be tiny slip of flag-like shape, reading him a sort of fortune of all his glories. Alas, all he saw was predictably that darkly flashy decor which was there previously when he'd looked, and oh, no directions had taken shape. His eyes came back down from their visit to the beyond, and he grinned. The grin could embroider multi-colored maiden's Mexican peasant dresses, or even inspire the golden curve of a cobras neck upon the bejeweled crown of a pharaoh. He'd won invisible awards for that grin. The trophies having taken residency within the pathway of his mental accomplishments and real or imagined, physical achievements. In the form of favors for the welfare of others. Such a blessing!

Was not his talent merely being more useful than others, in a cavalcade of indistinct and unspecified ways?

"I'm a magician." he began, "I'm an illusionist, an escapist, a hypnotist, a diviner, a poet, a madman, a monk, a sinner, a sage, a saint, a baker of cake, an adventurer of the senses, an appreciator of all things cajoled by poignancy, an admirer of the hidden universe. Are those talents? In a world where no one examines their life, thinks about thinking, or realizes experience is the key to unlocking hidden truths and insights into the world... perhaps so." and in conclusion, he'd gotten his cigarette, held it up opposing to his other hand (after of course inhaling a tuft of smoke one last time, and exhaling it quickly.) and smashed it there. Or so it seemed, until he clasped both hands together, pressing his palms, wringing his fingers.

And then he held both of his hands up and opened. The cigarette, ashes and evidence, were gone. A typical trick.

"What about you, insomniac Jane? Who is right about taking walks, they do help. Of that I agree."