It’s a masterpiece.

How else would I describe it but as a slight twitch of the hand and an unexpected journey. Or completely expected. Both, at the same time.

The art of being gone is an idiosyncratic one, deserving its own emotion and its own duration; it deserves thought separate and uninterrupted of the others, and is delicate. The art of going missing is done solely with crepe paper and ribbons, made up of eggshell patterns and airy wonderment. Oh, it begs for wonderment.

It is done in the time of the evening when no body quite has anything to do, and nobody quite has any specific reason to be together. It births a feeling deep within you of discontentment and confusion. It is dim lights and weird thoughts, and avoiding the completely avoidable yet undeniably important. It doesn’t possess geniality and is certainly not reputable. Cain’s heresy is unheard of to it. It is merciless.

Yet, to fully understand the art of being gone, we must understand the tools it uses; you hide away, keep tea close to you, your mind and your literacy dear. You are completely with yourself but in an uncomfortable way. Oh, everything is uncomfortable. Everything. The art is absolute and consuming, you do it often.

The art of being gone is specific.

The art of being gone is not asked for and is not kindly received. It births a feeling deep within you of discontentment and confusion. It is done sitting. Just sitting and thinking.

It comes from no where, and it never returns home.

The art of being gone is less of an art, and more of a game.

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