...a deathly serenade...

never chew that chocolate or suck that lolly: the
mystery that is Art and Life only brings
unreachable destinations, I conclude, as the rain
falls. Though I can’t hide my guilt in this sense, of
perfectionism; my fifteenth draft of the unfinished
AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA
Vanity. Blue clearly speaks of this understanding,
AA
but Yashu was more guilty than I, guilt from a
holistic point of view: a total eclipse of guilt. The
Professor and I had many a conversation about
this guilt, despicable as it was; that his only son
was the prodigal son and an Artist, he remained
derisive, but slowly got used to this: with the
apartment Yashu’s Father bought in Islington,
apparently for work and to see Yashu, acting
merely as a disguise for The Professor’s
philandering’s and quickly became an ominous
reminder for Yashu — perhaps acted in his
untimely fate. As the apartment in Islington was
always too close to Yashu in Shoreditch, he would
complain, even though The Professor rarely
occupied the Islington apartment. In his mind he
couldn’t fully succeed in escapism with Islington
looming over his head. Though, of course, the
death of The General a few years after we met,
sent Yashu’s messy regimented nature into a
darker place — Leila prophesied much of what
came to occur. I also knew. On the days I would
visit the Islington flat, The Professor would often
speak of his son’s flawed persona: What is he so
doggedly getting at? What a waste of a trust fund,
he said one time, and I began to see through this
same kaleidoscope: A prayer here, a prayer there,
everywhere a sermon. What does it all mean? To
become, as Yashu would say. It’s obvious this is
13