Chris Wilkins

A fictional narrative of a non-fictional life.

Intelligence in the Air

There was the smell of intelligence in the air. It radiated from everything in the room, from the chandelier to the outstretched carpet that lay gingerly on the floor. From the fireplace cackling to itself, or the decrepit books that sit ever silently on the mantel, unused, it encompassed everything. The open scotch glass next to a small leather rocking chair accents almost perfectly the end table beside it. Even a simple pair of glasses can show genius and promise. They were smooth, and much smaller lenses than you would come to expect in a place like this due to the obvious age. One of the temple tips was bent inwardly, folded on the other one, and the left lens was cracked like a spider web. They had seen years of hardship, but the intelligence could be seen on the worn tips, and the broken nose pads, all the way from the thin rims to the cracked lenses. A pilsner glass of scotch can be but a modest touch to the world changing thoughts of a lonely thinker. But until it touches the lips of a body craving escape, it is simply a glass of an untouched liquid.


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