The Aspirational Vicissitudes of Londen Culkin

The night was of a hallucinatory character, with lights streaming, people bustling and noises cascading in an orgasm of celebratory chaos. This was where Londen felt most comfortable. Darkness, or so Londen thought, was the tablet for adventure, moonlight and intrigue. Daylight, with its artless allure of bubble gum and roller blades, was merely to be tolerated. Londen stood admiring the whirpool of possibilies out of his apartment window. The city took hold of Londen's romantic egotism and beckoned with all of its pomp and attraction.

Ripped jeans, a v-neck sweater and bargain basement shoes would have to do. Londen shot out the door as if the hypnotic bedlam was coming to an end. He had a slow gait with an easy confidence. Smoke distended from his unnerving mouth in all its merciless gore. Londen walked. There was really no purpose to this prance, other than to kill the restless beast residing in a dark cavern of Londen's mind. Destination? Unknown. Itinerary? None. But in all the confidence of his unspoken genius, Londen anticipated an interesting script. He walked and thought.

Londen could focus on nothing for an extended period because of his desire to consume the entire motherfucking galaxy. He was determined to decide on his next move within the rubric of a nocturnal jigsaw. Visions of unencumbered travel, domestic domesticity, corporate whorishness, do gooding do goodishness, a budding practice, writing all flowed through his head like a spiraling gaggle of famished crows.

In the midst of arguing with himself, he came by a familiar haunt, stamped the faltering cigarette and opened the door.

to be continued...