I suppose I'll write about this since I had put myself into this situation in the first place. Holy shit do we live in a fast society or what? I am all over the place right now... gazette, watch, gazette, picture of you, pocket watch, gazette, your final note, and so on, and so forth. If I didn't have these things to occupy my time, I would be bouncing off the walls right now! Even when I try to stop moving, I look down at the carpeting in an attempt to calm down, I begin to look for patterns in the fabric and then I begin to wonder what patterns could be found elsewhere: The letters in the gazette, the details in the photographs, the fibre in the paper.... It's absolutely insane. What will the people next to me think? ...Who am I kidding, they won't believe their eyes. I need to calm down. I'm only seeking refuge from what had to happen. It was a rough and rocky road to here, but I made it....
Enough about me, I need to report on this note I just found:
[In a crumbled dirty note, dated August 16, ___]
Dear 81st Anniversary at The Heart Shatter Hotel,
[SCRIBBLES & RIPS]
_ell, the man next to me did flip his lid a bit too.
He exclaimed, "Fuck the economy! I'm not paying for overpriced shit!" as he threw down some David Bowie record he [presumably] just bought. He was wearing an old raggedy suit -- maybe from the thrift shop or maybe even the "late-great" years, themselves. He had a cigar hanging on the edge of his lip, and a brim hat on his head dangling in the wind. Everything about him was flapping in the wind at the cusp of time and space. He was about to fall apart; explode into a fountain of crumbled and torn papers stained yellow with cigar smoke. His chartreuse suitcase had green and blue sleeves waving out of the seams. The suitcase had to have been dragged for miles because it was [SCRIBBLES] beyond repair. I couldn't imagine where this man had come from. After he had smashed that record to bits, he pulled out a notebook and began writing. He was a mad-man with the pen, almost etching rather than writing his thoughts into the book. He was writing so furiously that his hat had finally fallen off. As he bent down to pick it up, he looked over at me and noticed me watching his every move. I quickly looked away and tried to play it cool. He ran over to me as he put his hat back on and said, "Have you seen this girl?" He raised his notebook up and flashed a sketch of a woman I have never seen before. It was drawn precise and concise -- a real artist's rendition. She was beautiful, it was like her soul was indeed trapped in the paper, beckoning anyone who could peer into her eyes. The name "Liv" was written down the bottom corner of the page. It's cursive lines wound through it's own loops and hoops which continued right off the page. It was written furiously like he had to register this name into the book before he forgot it.
I answered, "No, I've never seen this woman before in my life. She is gorgeous, who is it? Are either of you lost?" He said, "Whether or not she or I is lost is not the task. What is however is the fact that you failed to ask me what lies behind that page."
He began to tell me how he thought "she was the brightest light in his life because of how the glow wrapped around the door and hinges that lead to her bedroom." He also made sure that I knew he felt compelled to sell his x-ray machine because he could already see her soul. He said that she was "undeniable because she could dance in disguise behind walls and you would know it was her because of the way she hummed." I questioned, "What did she hum?"
He told me that she loved to hum Original Memphis 5 - Walk Jenny, Walk. "It was her favorite song", he said.
Walk, Jenny walk,
don't talk, Jenny walk.
Smile, Jenny smile,
forget your blues a little while
Now prance, Jenny prance,
don't dance, Jenny prance.
Strut your stuff, 'round the town,
pick 'em up, lay 'em down.
Now Jenny Walk, Walk, Jenny Day,
walk those blues away...
I asked him: "Did you study the English language in school?" He replied, "Who said that I received any formal education? I only attended night classes for wakin' up each morning."
He continued on about her eyes, hands, legs, and even her spine. He said it ran upwards "like a brush stroke." He went on, "She was a painting. An unfinished painting, but made of all possible colors here on this Earth. She was incomplete, unlike all the others."
As he finished his sentence, he stood up furiously and exclaimed, "There's no more time to waste! I've got it! I've never had the courage to speak to this woman. She's my neighbor in the duplex house I live in. I've never had the courage to talk to her before, but now I do. I understand her now.
Thanks..." extending his hand outward for a hand shake. I replied "____ [note is torn off here.]
Only the name along with a small remaining piece is missing. I wish I could find out more details. An engrossing story nonetheless. I'll be home shortly, I've got to go buy a David Bowie record and some paint.