...a deathly serenade...

AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA
A
become more pedantic about perfecting his craft.
If I can remember, as the rain continues to fall and
the night consumes the ether, Leila had released
her second book of poetry and Yashu was
competitive with this, he was failing to sleep and
would be constantly trying to eclipse that which I
saw as impossible: As Leila had named her book
of poetry, Elysium which is of course the hundred
and fifty page epic of ascension, heaven and
Elysium — the concepts getting more and more
lofty, even in my own eyes: it was as if the concepts
of life and death were dangling on thin ice, as our
work begun to take over our very beings. It is
about the swing of the black, Leila would say,
which was also the first line of Elysium, her poem.
With critical acclaim, Leila in a way reaffirmed her
position as one of the foremost European Artists,
one Art critic wrote. And by that time I had
written only Vanity. Ares, published by an
independent publisher, with the advance
providing me with enough money to live in the flat
in between Leila in Bethnal Green and Yashu in
Shoreditch, as the rains falls. Life being art, or art
as life, were concepts blurred as time went on, as
Leila, just like her work, had become more and
more pious. Although, it could be said that the
writing was on the wall in this sense: A prayer
here, a prayer there, everywhere a sermon — I
remember that first week at the hospital that
Madgelane the nun, Leila’s Aunt, had paid a visit:
Unlike the relationships I saw Leila fashion, even
with myself, her relationship with Madgelane had a
profound effect on her, it seemed. I remember
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