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Literature Text
My name is Charles Barken. I was born in England in 1914, on a cold winter's day on the floor of my mother's art studio. In 1920 we relocated to America, where I grew up; separated and isolated because of my origins, my unconvincing demeanour and my false mannerisms. In 1935 I moved to Japan, to the mountains of the Gunma Prefecture; to escape the escalating war. I could speak not a lick of Japanese, save for pleasantries, so hardly associated myself with the outside world, preferring to withdraw into complete solidarity; fearing the boiling of the war would spill into my sanctuary, like milk into oats; destroying the foundations of my life. So dependant I became on this fear that when the war came to a close, I no longer had emotion to drive me.
In my desperation to find emotional redemption I travelled to Okinawa; one empty man in a sea of hopeless faces. The rest of my life is a void. I had a routine, manners, a personality I could apply like a kabuki actor applies face paint. I was a regular, a man with an accent tinged tongue who ordered and spoke with elaborate hand gestures and a blank face.
In the summer of 1966 I awoke in a hospital bed to discover what my life had become while my mind was absent. A nurse with an undoubtedly familiar face; and painfully so, tended to me like I was a dying rose. Perhaps the product of one of my many pleasure house chases. My memory was too far gone with disuse and regret to remember all that I had lain my emotionless hands upon.
She stayed with me as I died; a man devoid of life for most of his waking years. As the lights of my demise raced towards me with astounding speed I felt the angel at my side lean in and whisper:
"Charles…"
Fin.
In my desperation to find emotional redemption I travelled to Okinawa; one empty man in a sea of hopeless faces. The rest of my life is a void. I had a routine, manners, a personality I could apply like a kabuki actor applies face paint. I was a regular, a man with an accent tinged tongue who ordered and spoke with elaborate hand gestures and a blank face.
In the summer of 1966 I awoke in a hospital bed to discover what my life had become while my mind was absent. A nurse with an undoubtedly familiar face; and painfully so, tended to me like I was a dying rose. Perhaps the product of one of my many pleasure house chases. My memory was too far gone with disuse and regret to remember all that I had lain my emotionless hands upon.
She stayed with me as I died; a man devoid of life for most of his waking years. As the lights of my demise raced towards me with astounding speed I felt the angel at my side lean in and whisper:
"Charles…"
Fin.
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Something I wrote in, I'm assuming, 07 or 08.
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