Michael Sibilia

A jaunty demeanor could ascribe to the settings of a various ways. Sweden was a constant flashback. Japan was a one-day layover, and China was home, before his gifted return to the states. He remembered how her eyes glistened, and how dangerous a smile could be. Like a demurred and scared insolence (somewhat irritable and angry but rather diffident), he felt his shoulders shrug as everyone welcomed him back into their lives. The rumor cited, Nicholas was back, and the book was published by the writer’s family after the great writers passing. It ascribed to a various notions of the life of the gifted musician, in it, never ascribing to the fate of the girl, untied. But he wished he was in Japan, he even wished he were high in Sweden, but his heart yearned the most for an indulgence in anything Asian. He realized the jumping back and forth from the written notes he had once read, as if anything mattered. He was gone, and it finally settled in, in discomfort, a great plaguing discomfort and

anonymity. Why had he passed? Was it the drugs? Finally they had caught up with him? He had choked on his own vomit days after releasing the work to the publication industries of great written America. The young musician waltzed his way through a great human congestion in sheer happiness. Sun peaks through and says hello. His mind did wander, and his eyes did jump, he was losing himself, he always had been. He had fallen quite hard for a girl of southern descent and always did they seem to strike fear and beauty into the young eyes of the beholder. Always did they strike it rich off the gold of his heart. What I won’t say, what I can’t, was that the musician fell for several girls all at the same time. Of course, everyone ascribing to their own notions, but he wandered and wandered weak willed and cheerful, the colors seeped through the notions of his eyes, to the mind, the even back of the head, chilled, all seeped through the living being shadow of theatres and life and the clouds loomed