...a deathly serenade...

see what was happening inside the studio. The
Professor showed the Landlord his I.D and agreed
to open the door. If I can remember Mary Bine
was the person that took the key and rushed to
open the door, I’m so worried, she said. Worried
about V.I.P wine? I thought, I remember. As we
entered there fate lay, as I had always known.
Yashu lay on his back in front of a triptych of
canvas with bottles of V.I.P wine laid next to him
and a Chinese noodle box on his stomach,
seemingly unconscious; as he laid as frozen as a
lake in the Arctic. Mary Bine quickly began to
wail; a scream I can still hear, over the trickling of
the V.I.P wine she pushed aside to get to Yashu in
an attempt to resuscitate him. The Professor
looked on with his head in his hands, but no
tears. The last words that Yashu spoke to me,
were unfortunate, particularly as Life as Art, the
rather ugly scene of his demise troubled me whilst
the Chinese noodle smell lingered amongst the
V.I.P wine and Vodka mix saturated with the
smell of Anti-Depressant tablets — given to him
by Doctor Benway. This meant that Yashu’s death
was classed as a suicide. Though with no note,
this was still disputed, particularly by his Mother,
who in the weeks leading up to the funeral
anxiously awaited every detail of the forensic
profile. I studied Yashu’s studio and knew what
was always fated, I noticed my own book open on
the studio table and saw the second afterword of
Vanity. Key had been underlined with his
paintbrush sat beside it: the foreword and quote
from Jean-Paul Sartre of illusion: Life has no
AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA
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