L I L I A NxP I E R V E N C E N T I
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Lilian had indeed been in her room, but the knock and following statement went unheard by her, as she was, at the time, too burrowed in the works of one Mr. William S. Burroughs to pay any mind. The novel in question was titled 'Naked Lunch', a non-linear narrative that chronicled the journey of a junkie, under his many aliases, through several countries. It was written in Paris, and published in July of 1959, and was perhaps one of Lily's favorite novels. It would have been the favorite, but that spot belonged to H.G. Wells' The Invisible Man, a book that had imprinted on her when she first read it as a child.
The reading didn't last much longer past the coming and going of Ismay, and Lilian soon found herself snapping the book shut, resulting in a satisfying snap that filled the empty air of her room. Her room seemed minimalist in question, but was a lot more micro managed in concept. The walls were an off-white with a red trim, and the floor was hardwood. Her bed was placed in the corner beside the window, running lengthwise along the wall, so that the light filtered in past her and not onto her into the morning. The bed contained a single pillow, one she had been using since childhood, as well as a red sheet and a heavy, patterned comforter, all of which lay disturbed.
To the left of her bed, under the windowsill, there was an end table, and on it was placed a lamp, with the rest of the surface space remaining bare. The end table had a drawer, but that was also empty. In the opposite corner of her bed, on the other side of the end table, there was a bookcase, and in the bookcase there were books, indexed in alphabetical order by title rather than by the author's last name, sans any books that were part of a series, which were always in order of release on the shelves. This bookshelf was small, white, and had only three shelves, all of which were filled. Across the room from that bookshelf in the opposite corner was another bookshelf, one much taller and made of unpainted wood. It had five shelves, and all of them were full as well. In between the two bookcases, a white wall heater stuck out from the bottom, with a single dial to turn it on and control the temperature it regulated.
There was a small walk-in closer in the corner kitty-corner her bed, which protruded out from the wall, and it contained the clothes she owned, all neatly hung up and organized by color. To the left in this closet there was also a small table, which held a record player. All along the floor of the closet, in boxes, there were vinyl records. Some held sentimental value and most got almost no play time at all, but Lilian mostly enjoyed the aesthetic of it all.
Finally, in the middle of the room, there was a stool, and in front of this stool, there stood an easel, and on this easel, there rest a canvas. This canvas lay blank, yet to be touched by the paints or pastels that Lily so frequently worked with. It had been set up after she woke up because she initially thought that she was going to paint in her bedroom, but had, just at the moment of closing her book, decided that she'd like to take it outside, see what surreal landscape she could conjure on that particular morning.
Before she got up from her bed, she lay the book on the table and clenched her fists while simultaneously locking her elbows, raising her arms slowly above her head as she arched her back and yawned, stretching out everything. She let out a loose sigh as she relaxed, dropping her arms back down to her side and begin the ritual of cracking every joint that needed it, starting with her knuckles and working her way up to her neck. Afterwards, she stood up from her bed and rose onto her tip toes, bending them and then rocking back onto her heels as she worked to throw her hair into a loose ponytail. She threw on a light sweater with sleeves too long for her, jeans, and removed the canvas from the easel so she could collapse it to make it easier to carry.
Placing the canvas under one arm and carrying the easel with that hand, she grabbed the rudimentary pastels she wanted and struggled with the doorknob of her door to get out into the hall. Managing to get it open after placing a pastel in her mouth so she could get a grip, Lily slipped into the hall and closed the door by kicking it closed behind her. The pastel remained in her mouth.
She maneuvered down the hall to the nearest exit, passing the entrance to the terrace as she did so, and noting two figures she didn't recognize, a single thought running through her head as she carried on without a second glance.
Don't know, literally don't care.
Once she made it outside, she found an appropriate spot and began to set up her canvas, realizing at the last moment that she had forgot a seat.
"I'm too fucking lazy to go back up and get the stool, anyway." She muttered, pressing the first pastel against the canvas and breathing life into art. In her fervor to set up, she hadn't noticed that she had dropped a pastel several feet back.
The reading didn't last much longer past the coming and going of Ismay, and Lilian soon found herself snapping the book shut, resulting in a satisfying snap that filled the empty air of her room. Her room seemed minimalist in question, but was a lot more micro managed in concept. The walls were an off-white with a red trim, and the floor was hardwood. Her bed was placed in the corner beside the window, running lengthwise along the wall, so that the light filtered in past her and not onto her into the morning. The bed contained a single pillow, one she had been using since childhood, as well as a red sheet and a heavy, patterned comforter, all of which lay disturbed.
To the left of her bed, under the windowsill, there was an end table, and on it was placed a lamp, with the rest of the surface space remaining bare. The end table had a drawer, but that was also empty. In the opposite corner of her bed, on the other side of the end table, there was a bookcase, and in the bookcase there were books, indexed in alphabetical order by title rather than by the author's last name, sans any books that were part of a series, which were always in order of release on the shelves. This bookshelf was small, white, and had only three shelves, all of which were filled. Across the room from that bookshelf in the opposite corner was another bookshelf, one much taller and made of unpainted wood. It had five shelves, and all of them were full as well. In between the two bookcases, a white wall heater stuck out from the bottom, with a single dial to turn it on and control the temperature it regulated.
There was a small walk-in closer in the corner kitty-corner her bed, which protruded out from the wall, and it contained the clothes she owned, all neatly hung up and organized by color. To the left in this closet there was also a small table, which held a record player. All along the floor of the closet, in boxes, there were vinyl records. Some held sentimental value and most got almost no play time at all, but Lilian mostly enjoyed the aesthetic of it all.
Finally, in the middle of the room, there was a stool, and in front of this stool, there stood an easel, and on this easel, there rest a canvas. This canvas lay blank, yet to be touched by the paints or pastels that Lily so frequently worked with. It had been set up after she woke up because she initially thought that she was going to paint in her bedroom, but had, just at the moment of closing her book, decided that she'd like to take it outside, see what surreal landscape she could conjure on that particular morning.
Before she got up from her bed, she lay the book on the table and clenched her fists while simultaneously locking her elbows, raising her arms slowly above her head as she arched her back and yawned, stretching out everything. She let out a loose sigh as she relaxed, dropping her arms back down to her side and begin the ritual of cracking every joint that needed it, starting with her knuckles and working her way up to her neck. Afterwards, she stood up from her bed and rose onto her tip toes, bending them and then rocking back onto her heels as she worked to throw her hair into a loose ponytail. She threw on a light sweater with sleeves too long for her, jeans, and removed the canvas from the easel so she could collapse it to make it easier to carry.
Placing the canvas under one arm and carrying the easel with that hand, she grabbed the rudimentary pastels she wanted and struggled with the doorknob of her door to get out into the hall. Managing to get it open after placing a pastel in her mouth so she could get a grip, Lily slipped into the hall and closed the door by kicking it closed behind her. The pastel remained in her mouth.
She maneuvered down the hall to the nearest exit, passing the entrance to the terrace as she did so, and noting two figures she didn't recognize, a single thought running through her head as she carried on without a second glance.
Don't know, literally don't care.
Once she made it outside, she found an appropriate spot and began to set up her canvas, realizing at the last moment that she had forgot a seat.
"I'm too fucking lazy to go back up and get the stool, anyway." She muttered, pressing the first pastel against the canvas and breathing life into art. In her fervor to set up, she hadn't noticed that she had dropped a pastel several feet back.