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Estella believes that 1964 never actually happened and was started as a rumour for those who missed their youth. She believes that 1964 is now as it wasn’t then and that her physical body has only just come into existence along with all her dreams, hopes and love riddled prose.

Estella knows that some have found it and others are still searching. She smiles at those who just don’t care.

Below her rain washed window sits a chair of sorts, grey cold, metallic, with a white cushion tacked on to the seat. If Shakespeare was still alive and living in today’s mirror, she believes he would have one just the same. It could even be his under her window- she never did find out where he got it.
When he was around, he would tell fantastic lies in front of her parents giving her body tremors that would last and last. He would break windows and throw boiling water all over her 3rd generation lawn, all because she would not show him how to get out of the maze that she found in a chest that she inherited from him the last time he left. She just wished that she were stuck in the shrubbery
And if he ever needed to visit her, that is where she would be. He was never a human, he was a God being natural in his Indian dreams of trout fishing and silent drum beats.
When he was there he would often think of going to the kitchen to emphasise his presence but he wouldn’t because he believed Estella didn’t appreciate her genius enough, and now she was left to call it a day and to think whether or not sitting on a fence ultimately pays off. She remembers him sitting in the food court, eating out of a cardboard box, talking of the cosmos and slowly creating those silences.

When Estella takes a hint she takes it pretty well, like the last time he called her up on that phone, he told her, she might as well stay home. My! That was an emotional day. So she stayed at home thinking of him, his mum and his mum’s cat. She heard it died soon after. God is a mysterious son of a bitch.
She was sorry, she almost forgot him in a drunken haze, she figures she must have misplaced her memories of him, or perhaps someone else stole them, she thinks it was the homeless lady who lives by the bridge, anyway that is not important any more, what is important is, at the risk of her sounding dignified and out of place, is their individual relationships towards each other. Did he ever think of her in all those lasting years? Did he grieve her absence? She writes that would be nice to think she made an impact on someone’s life; his especially, but there is no point in kidding oneself. When she takes a hint.
There she is writing of him, she doesn’t know why, there she was and now she’s here, her love it was nothing for he was just a ghost, a shadow, a surrogate excuse for distraction. A crucifix out of straw and claw she had made for them both (more for he than she) and when it rained it washed away, a river of red flowing slowly down the side of the road, it reminded of the day that she asked for closure. So she stood there in front of him refusing to cry or shudder or look away, they were both miracles in a sea of miracles, what made them different was the fact that they believed in neither miracles nor facts- just beliefs. How was she? Where was he? Was his spark still alive? Or did it commit suicide like he said it always would. Him in his thorny crown, her in her pyjama’s smiling by the side of the bed deep in prayer.
It wasn’t his fault and she had done nothing wrong. She asked him if it was a cry for help or just a hint. He replied yet again with just a never mind. It was all right, for when she takes a hint she takes it pretty well.

Estella’s vision had only just begun, like a heroin high, like an office job low and she wondered if she should mention the time that she caught him wearing nothing but her make-up all over his body, excusing his behaviour with the colour, or there lack of, of the world. She told him that clouds can engulf the sky, and yet they contain every colour listed on the visible spectrum. He answered this be telling her that the shadow of a cloud holds every secret that is visible in the minds inner spectrum. And she wished then, to herself, that he could see that she was in his. Wishing upon stars, upon bones, upon fire, upon the thread of life itself.
She decided that the time was right for her laser beam to open up the night, no one talks to her high up on her hill, due to the oxygen being so thin and unbearably silent, she liked it that way though, quiet, obnoxiously deadly and high, high up on the hill of her. She wondered what he thought she was going to say and what he wanted her to say.
He and his laugh sentenced her to a life of pretentious yet graceful living. She wasn’t complaining, she was merely breaking down his barriers, his laugh and where it got her. Now where was Estella headed? This is what frightens her the most, without God as a fact, there is faith, with faith there is doubt, and if she doubts, she doesn’t have much chance of getting where she wants to go. Who is the biggest fool? The man who denies the god, or the God who created the man. She can always dream of getting to her ultimate heaven, unless she votes against it in her own personal referendum- unless she votes against the right to have an imagination. Her choice, her vote, her dreams.

He used to perplex her, imitated her and invite her into what he dubbed the “your life as an American movie” club, once she would settle the air, he would argue about what the time was. After a while the more she dreamt of him, the more she worried about him and his legs traversing blindly through many atmospheric wonder roads, bumping into other orbiting vagabonds She often wondered if his feet were itching from travelling or travelling to itch. She still thinks fondly of the times they spent apart pretending to care, but lately has tried to stop for the risk of sounding relaxed.
Estella never separates him from her life although she believes it is a mono-voyage, a trip for one down the river of her sinking city, with its grand piano and licensed stories telling tales of wonderment and astonishing the teenage audience.
She told him to be cautious when sleeping in second hand shops as he one day might wake with one of her kind opening the door and believing his luck and where would that leave them? Cosy, warm and complete, wrapped snugly in the feather filled covers of antique beds; all traits that never suited him.

‘Splendidness, fluor devolve’ she writes until the coldness engulfs her and she shrugs it from her living memory, just one of those moments she feels.

If only she had good breeding, she then would need none of his kind.




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