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from the book of jack
Sights and sounds and life usher in helplessness known only to a few; known only to the select which have learned their defenseless nature. Bitter frost now bites and chips away at that beautiful, pure ivory skin of his. Jean Paul, his name was, is...was....
He's dead now.
Jean Paul Delacroix was a musical genius, a talented multi-instrumentalist, a wonderful singer...Another dead composer.
He was born, he once recalled, in a small home by the sea, to a mother, father and an older brother; all dead now. He was given the very best, and he had only but to ask. Jean was a beautiful youth, taking various roles on the stage.
He was wonderful at his art. His voice flourished into song, and his incredible nature knew no bounds. He was perfect...Yet tragically flawed, as so many are....
Arsenic was his downfall.
Last week, the story was reported on all forms of media, and even tonight...The tale it retold on a local radio station, one which Jean's best friend, and former lover, had been listening to for the past many hours, letting the motor run, laying on the back seat which saw many interactions between the two males.
Jack had been sleeping for a long time, clutching a newsprint cut out, Jean's smiling face printed in grayscale.
The next morning would find Jack in a different form of sleep, dried tears adorning his tan, sun kissed cheeks.
excerpt from the jean paul chapter
written by Kammy
 kamazoth · Sat Dec 13, 2008 @ 07:50am · 0 Comments |
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