A monster inside of her sickly mind.
And the over-invested killing of the sacred deer is instantaneous at being decidedly deplorable and real again.
All of these Greek father’s sacrificing the adolescent lamb of their daughters to the mythological slaughter. Have to ask, but is this maybe perhaps his Achilles heel?
She wears manicured black lipstick to decipher between the men and these also-ran’s.
She has lost a hero but reinvested in her favourite best friend. Nearly made up her own brain once upon an outlandish time – New York and she appears to be the only mother-fucker in the village of dreams anymore. Beautifully perturbed and so far from home that it still hurts like hell-on-hot-wheels, yet on will the cogs in her brain ceaselessly turn til no less intently intensified –
Deliriously, improbably inescapable – sabre-tooth wide-eyed imbeciles who shall forever stand near her conversational ear-piece and wish, wish, wish to Christ on a backward walking bicycle for a piece of the price of mere brilliance alone.
This particular girl does not wait for that penny to finally fall atop of their unsightly demise – disguised by fast-forwarded imagination/consternation – and she walks a little farther on inside with a tremble near her hip
A soothing whisper locks her ruby red lips.
This is the Saint of Vincent and she feels everything. Even if the other people haven’t even bothered her to listen. Act your age now boys because she is about to turn the other cheek, so to speak with double-meaning near her sordid feelings.