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Subject: {ASSM} from TxM6  Imaginary Death/ Liana II
Date: Wed, 20 Sep 2000 07:10:03 -0400
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Also From TxM6 Hyperfiction
http://www.txm6.com (updated 9/16/00)
http://www.txm6.com/enfer (updated 9/17/00)
http://www.txm6.com/lcfallon
http://www.farragher.com  (Poetry updated 9/14/00)

TxM6 is entirely a work of fiction for adults only.
Copyright (c) 2000 Sean Farragher.

Journal of Henry Ezra Whitman
This is the land of Used to be Alive: Weather Reports
0917XImaginaryDeath0498xd.htm


Imaginary Death of Liana Fasciano
AUTOPSY REPORT: Drug OD

No, autopsy reports necessary. She did not die.
Nothing else can be seen. It is all blank. She had
become the cardboard back on mass produced paintings
by Keane.

"What is the origin? Where does it start? Let me know
the names of all the victims before creating their
anguish." - Laurie Fallon

Henry Whitman, a not so ordinary cab driver returned
to the Fort Lee taxi stand with a beautiful but
practically dead woman, Liana Juliana Fasciano, at
rest, hands clasped as in prayer, in the back seat of
Hudson Street Taxi #4. Henry thought she was sleeping.

In street view she feigned sleep as her head leaned
back to one side, eyes half closed; hidden ash white
pupil, purple iris.

Liana's usually animated hands were now quietly drawn
together in her lap, expectant. Today. Liana on her
drug run had moved from Fort Lee to Washington Heights
as if she were a black and white surrealist movie;
each frame more and more translucent until the
invisible woman, escaped, dragged down and beaten
senseless by a lonely man, with unknown eyes. He is
not Henry.

What can Liana do? How can she live again?

Tune in next time, perhaps, and we could know
something more of the plot. Nothing is certain. You'll
have to take your chances with life and death and
oblivion. After all. Who cares for you, if not your
Saint Faith your favorite soap opera Queen brought to
you by the best of all the dirty movie spots found in
any 42nd Street arcade.

I get it. You want to know why I saved her. You say I
had the power, the opportunity, why did I give her a
second chance. Do you think life is so wonderful?
Admit it, I may be correct or I could be a tease,
keeping the game in place, when really it was done
long ago.

Henry was not the murderer. Liana didn't kill herself
except as all drug addicts embrace or not wish death
and starvation. Why let Henry be blamed. I love him as
only a spirit can. I do take a human form now and
then. He's OK in my book.

"It's called the absence of love."

"Now, who said that," Chrissy glared out of the blond
space of her dark eyes and grabbed that lonely voice
who would not be identified. How dare she interrupt my
s ance, Chrissy thought?

Whatever it was. Henry was not responsible. In fact,
the dead woman, a delusion, had no physical fact
except in Henry's mind and hers.

Liana was the archetype. Invisible specter. Ghost,
perhaps. One actual woman driven into her own mind
died without any connections. We all need to feel the
boundary. We need to watch the eyes of lovers embrace
and then as a third party, a stranger we dance on the
inside of it all. We find the way and carefully blend
it into a drifting first and new storm.

She did die, and while her body decomposed along the
underside of a darker hospital, outside its fringe, in
the garbage pits, where the silent drugs took death
down one step below the worst possible conditions.
She lived beyond putrefaction. She was no substance,
no flesh, and then you, she stepped off the edge of
the page of Taxi Murders, or any book, and what was
terrible. She was not beyond your extinction (as we
all die), and the rules of man's law (forget Gods) and
human accord were moot, impossible, stripped of all
moral rights and revelations.

No Moses, Henry. No Abraham, and forget Jesus, she was
a woman, named nothing. Yes, she, Liana, was a figment
of Henry's imagination diverted into flesh and bone
briefly. Look into my eyes. See me now. I am with
Liana as she peels the skin from pubic pears and
suckles cunt and cock at will. I watch her suck
slippery cooze and delight finds its own repair after
all pain our pain is finished too in that linger
aftertaste of tired pee and sex.

-- 
Pursuant to the Berne Convention, this work is copyright with all rights
reserved by its author unless explicitly indicated.
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