Marseille

“Absurdity is purity my loves” said the wise Monsieur Sinclair to his pupils. “Yet the creativity in the nuances is but a ripple upon the fabric of time.” They all applauded having no idea what the hell he means. But they love it anyway. Cerebral confusion to make one think. Is there meaning in this, is there meaning in anything at all?

 Young Pierre Dellatonte sauntered home that eve through the streets of Marseille. A maze boggled his mind as he dreamed of legs and river bottoms. The nuance was not upon him as he gazed through the window frame. An unsettling feeling of regret anchored itself in his harbor. The ardor is no longer here he thought. Ol Pierre lived a long and lustful life through the years of gray and dismay. All jumbled together like a prism of never-ending thought.