Writing From Beyond the Dead[Mature Somewhat I'd Say]

[Mitch]

[size=1] Honestly, I know mostly what this story means, but honestly, then again, maybe I don't lol. I just let it do what it wanted...this is honestly the longest I've written something in a long time. So I'm sure it's not amazing all the way through...I'm definitely sure it transitions roughly in parts. It is 5,000+ words, but that's also a whole lot I'm sure that can be editted, and so on, and so forth. You don't have to do some amazing critique...I'm nore along the lines of wanting to hear what you think this whole thing means. That would be much more interesting than anything else you could say to me anyway. But as always, anything you can say about how it needs help here or there in flow, that would be nice. Try not to be anal to the point where you're anal, though, I mean, it [i]is[/i] just a rough draft.[/size]

[b][center]Beyond the Dead [subject to change][/b][/center]

She was a most beautiful creature when I first eyed her. She had long black hair, a thin, clear face; petite hands, bony yet well-kept; she had lucent, well-rounded eyes, blue as the ocean. She was a beautiful creature.

But only beautiful when I first eyed her.

I first eyed her as I sat getting ready for bed. It had been a tiring day, so I was most tired. I stood in my room, the lights turned off, sweet music stuck in my head playing, slowly taking off my clothes. I must have looked like a dark thing in the darkness, just standing there, the black, vague shadows of my shirt as I took it off dancing; the black, vague shadows of my pants as I took them off cadencing about my little room. I am not sure if she was watching me then and there as I undressed. I am not even sure that, if she was watching, that her eyes could see my form clearly-for perhaps she was accustomed to darkness, and had the abilities to see in it. But that is not for my to concern myself with, for if she saw me or not, those events that unfurled would have been the same.

My room is a small little, homely place. The walls are bare and do not contain anything on them, for I pay little attention to such superfluous things. I have much better things to do with my time rather than worry about the furnishings and character of my room. For the purpose of the room is not to be ornate and decorative, but it is to be a place that is one's own. Suffice to say, my own picture of a room is just as I've said-a room that is not ornate or decorative, but rather, suited to my own tastes. And I am not a colorful, animately decorative person; I leave things as they are, and create new things which are not so superfluous.

Then that was what I was thinking, as I took off my jeans, tossing them aside; now as I stood just in boxers, I looked about my room, thinking how beautiful the simple, unaltered is. Perhaps I was smiling; or maybe, perhaps, I was hiding a smile as I did so. For I feel certain acquaintances with my room. One being the familiar feeling to it; another being just knowing that the day was over, and tomorrow was not yet here; that it was not yet dying as it would start doing at the stroke midnight. Tomorrow never dies is what the say. But indeed tomorrow does die; for as it dies, it is then today. But all in the same sweep, another tomorrow is after that then created today. It is quite a twisted thing, time is.

Still standing there thinking, that is what I looked to just then in my room, in the dark, prepared to go to sleep. In the back of my head there was music still humming in me as I eyed over to the clock. I read its face; I read it much like one may look upon one's face who they see often and know well. It is the same look; for when you look at a clock, you look at it and you read it, you see what it has to say. And so it is the same with someone one knows well-looking into their face, you can read it, just like reading a clock, and you can know what they are feeling, especially upon viewing their eyes. Time is a much more sturdy thing though. It eats away all that it tells, except itself. It is knowing of itself, but still does not decay.

The clock read to me ten forty-five. And at that time I finally crawled to the reaches of my bed. Strangely, I had made my bed at morning. Most certainly, it was not a common occurrence with me to do it. But early that morning, as I was adorned in my work habiliments of a cordial tie and suit, the feeling had come upon me instantly. Like a heavy-gripping, never-letting grasp. Something had touched me, thrown me to making my bed, and so I had done it. I even whistled as I did it, as if the task was most entertaining, fun, and of good and purposeful use. It was completely the latter. Completely in entirety. The entire prospect of making a bed every day unnerves me. The monotony and organized nature alone is enough to warrant my unwelcome gestures of this practice. Yet I had done it that morning, blissfully, with little thought as to what I was doing.

The clock now read eleven eleven as I finally looked it, after seeing that I had made my bed, having gone lost in thought for the elapsed time. An odd, strange number. All those digits aligned in perfect, fluent sameness. It glares at one as if each one is some tally, or perhaps a claw. The entire sight of the sameness of such a thing, and you having glanced at it momentarily is quite the coincidence. I stared at that digital face some time, until it had changed to its next number in its procession.

I felt even more afeared and gripped with some superstitous glare at the new set of numbers I read. The clock now read eleven twelve! Eleven twelve, what a strange, eerie string of numbers itself. Like the counting off of something, an eleven, then a twelve. It reminded me much of what I had been thinking of as I had stood there when first throwing off my jeans. The realization that soon it would be tomorrow, which would be then today, making that tomorrow gone, and a new tomorrow conceived; and just as this, the hour after eleven is twelve. Just like the clock's face was now counting down, saying to me as I stared at it on its little nightstand by my bed.

I no longer trusted time at that moment. It felt as if it were playing with me, somehow conniving with my sleep-enfeebled mind. I did not know why I was so scared, so superstitiously riled. But late at night, one must admit, small things can lead to bigger things, where in turn those bigger things can lead to colossal, even larger, things. It was much the same for me at the time. And anything could have set off this enfearment. Maybe it could have been some shadow puppeting with my mind, masquerading with me; maybe it could have been some thought of a sickly, swollen apparition; maybe it could have been a noise I heard reverberating from the confines of my upstairs.

But it was none other than time at that moment. And it was, quite easily, the most scary of all for reasons I cannot understand myself. I stood there, coiled, unable to move. Then just as had come before, the clock's face moved about its procession, adding one to its minutes. It now read eleven thirteen. I stared at it in dreamy haze, pondering over if it could be yet another conniving, playing thing from the cold calculation of time. At first I came to no end that could tell me it was playing with me again, but then, it donned on me, but slowly. It was on the tip of my tongue at first; I knew what I was trying to see, but I couldn't give it a certain, knowing understanding. Then there it came. By adding the digits of the clock, a one, one, one, three, it added up to six! Six, that most tricky number. This, most obviously, is not what I first saw. At first I thought of the number six six six, those three numbers in rapid succession which are said to be the very numbers of the devil himself.

This is the thought which first nestled in my head upon imaging the number six in my head. Those three, smooth, upside-down nines slithering out their tails, with their heads facing downward, and their tails slung in the air as if angered and rancored with an inflection. Or perhaps those three sixes looked much like scorpions, with stingers held heftily in the air, and heads prying on the ground, insectile.

My mind was ripe and moving now. The thought of the devil sprang into my head and would no longer leave. Images of large fires, ephemeral screams and wails of tormentation, desecration. Images of wild, twisted, writhing hands bled and bruised from being whipped and slaved. Snarled, caught horns groping out from heads. The click-clack of steel chains verberating coldly. Deep-set, dead insidious eyes molesting about, veering to and fro, viewing everything with stern, mean eyes. An endless abundance of burning, seething slavation. It all was in my mind, and it would not leave. The thoughts meddled with me, finally getting the best of me. Finally breaking from my walls I'd built to contain them.

It all seeped out. All crèche, young and ravenous. There was no longer anything to do. I had willed it upon myself. I had let my mind wander into the depths, let it all become paranoid and sneaking. My imagination had gotten the best of me.

Why is what is unknown the thing which most scares us, brings us to our knees? Why is it what most fears us? Why is it the thing that in the depths of sleep, and the coming of it, that we think most of? It is those things which most likely we shall never comprehend, or those things which we create from our own imaginations, that most scare us. And often we keep it all in; we are reticent, we do not let it get its long, wry nails on us. But always, sometime, it catches up with us. An inevitability that will not just die and leave us, but still lives in its death. And what is the most unknown thing which we know? The future. The only thing we know that shall happen is death; but still, even that is something we do not fully know. It is not something we understand-it is not something we comprehend. And all these things, and more, catch up to us at the coming and dive into sleep. Always they brood with us, an unkempt company that has its deeper being in our most weakened and fickle states.

This is what had happened to me. And it kept me ill and sick company until I no longer could understand where my thoughts were going, where they had been, where they had gone, and why they were thinking what they were. I became lost in the thought processes which I was not even controlling. My imagination was slowly crawling to stop. A stop that just as soon could spring up and be off again. It was time to drift off to sleep before it all crashed down on me again.

It was now much later. Sometime during my foray in my imagination I had sat down on my bed, and I now felt its soft, suave sheets. It felt very welcoming, warm, and comfy. I briefly stood up, still in darkness-a darkness I had adjusted to-and I unfurled my sheets, first pulling off my topmost, black cover. Then came the next one. It was also black, but of a lesser thickness. As I did this, my pillows rolled out from the covers where they had been placed. One particular pillow rolled out, going almost off of my bed and to the floor. Taking my hands from my now pulled out, readied sheets, I grasped this pillow from the top, putting my palm there, holding it tight enough to lift it. The pillow was surprisingly warm, and it was not a warm created by the heat of the sheets. It felt much more regulated. Much more lively. Almost as if a head had recently lain on it, sleeping themselves.

My imaginations once again reawoken, an instant flash of vivaciousness graced me. Suddenly, I imagined a woman's face. She was staring at me as she lie on the pillow, I seeing her from the side. Her face was in a smile; her hair was most black and long; her eyes were blue as an ocean; her lips shaped in an arc, almost open but not, dark, deep red; her neck standing smally out from her thin, unlined face as it escaped into the inner reaches that were my black covers.

Just as soon as it had came, it then disappeared. But it still stayed in me like an imprint, a photographic ellipsis. She was still there in my mind. Still staring at me with that welcoming, yet eerie smile; her eyes were still blue, but not as lusterous; her hair was still black, but not as vivid, but more blurred; her lips were as luscious, but were now smeared, vague, as if lip stick and been smudged there. She was well still there, never to leave until I let her, but gone all the same.

I glanced the pillow strangely, feeling its soft blankness, seeing its smooth blackness. It still did feel warm, but I excused the thought. It was just my imagination, yet again, getting the best of me. I climbed into bed, shut my eyes, and was off to the places of sleep, and those beyond.

I awoke. Again the woman's face appeared to me, a little lesser imprint than last time. She was still there as I made my mind see the image.

I turned to turn off my alarm; it was always what awoke me. I pressed it off without looking, the habitual nature of the task not needing me to look any longer. Yet, the thing still kept blearing. It rang, chimed, bleated, clanged, belled; it would not stop, not for the life of it. Groggily, I turned up and looked at the clock's face. It was empty; there was not a single number nor digit there. I stared in wonder, amazement, and a sickening fear. Still looking at it, I put my hands on it, and turned it to its side. Finding the switch, I pressed it. Still the thing did not stop blearing. Still it would not give me rest.

Soon I gave up, and in anger and frustration, I smashed it on the ground of my room in one fell toss. Then I reclined back in my bed, still tired, still wondering what was going on. Just as I lay there, I felt a form move on the left side of me. I was so startled I jumped right out of my bed, still in my boxers, but not in complete darkness, for the sun had come out. In half-light the figure in my bed turned its eyes towards me. It lie in just the same way I had seen it in my head.

It was the woman; that one, singular, beautiful woman. She had white teeth I saw as she widened her smile more; her black hair was there, even better than I had seen it in my dreams; her eyes were the bluest blue, even bluer than sadness, even bluer than the ocean; her lips were plump, dark red and lushous, even more than I had remembered them being; her face, altogether, was thin, bony, yet full and unwrinkled all the same. She was quite beautiful, and I stared in awe and wonder long before I snapped out of it. She was exactly as I had imagined-and more-much more. I did not know what to say; the words were all over my mind in a chaotic, inarticulate mess. I just stared at her-and she stared at me.

She was the one who spoke up. I did not even hear what she said, it was as if she spoke a different language I had never heard. All I heard was the caliber and inflection of her voice. It was most beautiful, just as she was. It was soft and sweet and lulling, like sweet singing. I was very lost, and as her lips moved, all I could do was stare at them, not hearing what they were saying. Soon I came into the bed with her.

It is all a blur from here on out. She said things to me just by her touching that I cannot even being to explain here. We did many things; we layed in each other's arms, we cuddled; we kissed; we tangoed; we loved one another in a love that never could have existed in such a short amount of time.

Long it felt I was with her, in her arms, with her. But it soon ended. I awoke again, a second time. This time I lay there, just remembering the dream. My alarm was again blearing, but I could not hear it, it was only a noise in the back of my head. I only thought and thought again and again of what I had dreamed, and could only remember the immense pleasure I had felt; the entire reality of it all, how real it had felt.

In still a reminiscing haze, I went to shut off my alarm. This time I was not surprised when it would not shut off. As sure as I felt I had hit the switch, again I knew that it was again doing what it had done before. I sat up, half-hoping I would feel a form move to the left side of me again. Placing my hands on the alarm, nostalgic, tense, wondering, I hit the switch off again, not even reading what was on the alarm's face. It didn't stop making its bleats to no surprise, even though I had hit the switch for sure. It dawned on me I should check the face, and so I did. It was again blank, but I could see something reflecting. I looked.

I could see the woman, but her face was stern, and cold, and looked dead. I thought I could see blood on her, but I did not let that hit me. And as suddenly as I saw this image, I saw me, kissing her as I came up. I saw only my naked back, the strangeness of seeing my naked back hitting me in a way I could not understand. I stared long, looking at the reflection in the half-light given by the little window in my room. Things seemed to remain the same, as if they would never change. And so I slowly decided I would turn around, and face what there was to face.

Doing this, looking at my naked back, I could see the woman with the black hair having her clothing removed. But my body, the one who was not me but was, was blocking most of it-I only caught small views, mostly containing views of her clothes themselves as they were thrown off. I was entranced yet again with this woman, but it was a much more held-back, strange feeling of attraction.

Eventually I could no longer stand watching. I wanted to be in it all. I wanted to feel it. The me was still kissing her, quite passionately, it seemed. I did not know for sure, I refused to look, for I was afraid in some way that I might see something I might not to-for the image of the woman before she had been blocked still stood in my mind. I could still see her sitting upright, that grave look, a red that almost appeared to be blood, but couldn't have been. And through all of this, my alarm still bleared, as if telling me of the insanity of this-that it was probably just a dream. I did not feel it was a dream. It felt real.

The curiousity eventually gets the best of us all. And I was so driven mad by what was going on and my unknowing of it, that I pushed heavily aside my naked self that was, it seemed, kissing this fair woman. What I saw I dare not imagine even now, but I shall eschew it on this paper all the same. It was horrific! it was grotesque! it was ugly! of all the things worse in this world, this must be the worst!-it just must!

It was me. I looked, I stared at its naked form. I looked at the breasts-and as I looked, they sagged from their voluptuous full. I stared and watched as what I once had seen of this beautiful woman was decaying in front of my eyes. Slowly she decayed, dilapidated, and then stopped. I stared at her long and hard, unbelievingly, unknowingly, unwantingly, disgustingly She now looked like she had long been dead. Long, long dead. And most scary of all-most ugly, most hurting, most ugly, most unneeded-there stood, upon where her head would be, my head. It had been sewn on there, the stitches standing out, and slightly red-the red being the little red I had seen.

I did not understand why I was seeing something so horrific. Her body was also beaten and bruised and in inundated condition. Her eyes-no, my eyes-looked like they had had fear in them, but died. I imagined that if her head were where it should be, that her mouth would be wide open in a scream, her lushous lips decayed to a color I cannot even imagine; and her eyes, those eyes that once had been oceans' blue, they would be dull and colored with death. And her hair would be thin and wispy, almost as if it were terse fence wire. The beauty would be gone-the decay taken over, violating, puncturing her beauty. Penetrating it.

I turned from her, looking to find the other me. Had he done this? It seemed it could be so. I found his body on the floor, having been knocked so by me as I stared in utter amazement at what had once been the woman.

He was dead as well. Not to my surprise, but all the same to my surprise, her head had been placed on his. I looked at my familiar naked form, seeing the same stitch marks, the same decay happen in front of my eyes. He decayed, and stopped suddenly, just as the woman. He also looked like he had been dead for days, long dead. By his hands there was a piece of tattered, torn, mangled and yellowed paper. It was turned upside down. Beside it there was a pen, cracked and worn down just as all I had come to truly see.

Apprehension on me, I turned around the piece of paper. On it was drawn an eloquent depiction of two people kissing, holding each other's arms, with a distressed look in their eyes-and what was that look? It was the realization of death coming soon. And who were the people? They were me. Me and her.

As I stared at that paper, utter disgust on me, a sadness that I couldn't place, everything began to get fuzzy, and heavy. My entire vision blindsided. I no longer could hold where I was, I felt some type of sleep sedating me.

I awoke again, this the third time. I awoke in my office at work, I was lying on the ground. I looked at what I was wearing. It was my work habiliments-my cordial tie and suit. And then, as I came to my feet, I looked to my office desk.

There I was. I didn't understand it at first. I didn't grasp it at first. But there I was. I was slumped over in my chair, behind the computer desk. I could hear typing, the clattering and cling of keys. I walked over slow, tired, not wanting to know, but still curious enough to try. As I approached the typing sound grew louder. I could see my head. I could see my hair, brown, tidy, well-combed. I approached. I was now about to see the side of my face.

And then I disappeared. And then the me I saw reappeared again. Only this time I was on the ground with that woman. I was kissing her. We were holding hands tightly, the look of death was in our eyes. It was the drawing I had seen. I vaguely comprehended that as I comprehended it, and it passed like the dream it felt like. I could actually hear what we were saying. It was frantic. Scared. Perilous.

Between our sniffles I could hear brief amounts of begging. "Please don't kill us"; "Let us live"; "I don't want to die"; "Please don't stop kissing me"; "Please don't let go"; "I don't want to die"; "We're not going to die, we're not going to die, we're not going to die"; "I won't let you go"; "Just hold on tighter"; and it all swirled around endlessly, growing louder, so that I could hear it, then receding. It was just an echo of its form event. It was just replaying in front of my eyes for no reason.

I stepped over, closer to my computer, and as I did, I saw what I had saw earlier, on my bed. My head was beheaded and placed on hers; hers was beheaded and placed on mine. And next to us there stood a man. He had a long knife in his hand, a gun in the other, a pleasurable look on his face. Suddenly he was just holding a pen, no longer a knife and a gun. He was drawing.

Below his feet there stood a picture he had drawn earlier. It was the one I had seen, all yellowed. The woman and I held hands in it, just like I had seen. It seemed the man was making pictures of us as we died. Recording our deaths in some rememberancing way. He seemed to be enjoying it.

I was welled with ineffable sadness. Anyone would.

I again walked toward the computer. I could still see its luminescent reflection, that glow that told me the monitor was on, probably the computer itself. It seemed like it was calling to me, wanting me. Beckoning me.

A word document was opened on the screen. What I've typed here was typed there, even though I'd never typed it out before. It was all there, every single word, every single thing. A strange feeling appeared in me then. I finally understood.

I tried to close the word document then. But it wouldn't close. And then suddenly, the computer restarted. The woman's face appeared largely, and slowly it animated into decay, and became just a skull. Just a skull.

The computer remained unchanged. The skull stood there in stark resplendence. I walked away, into the bathroom. The one I'd gone to think things out so many times before.

I looked in the mirror. I saw my face at first, then I saw hers. She was smiling for some reason. It was an evil smile, twisted like time. And just as sudden, the mirror cracked to pieces, the shards falling and breaking into smaller pieces. And just as sudden, the wall that held the mirror cracked and broke into smaller pieces.

I turned to run as everything broke to pieces. And she was right there, looking at me, laughing, uglier than before. She held out her hand, and I took it. It was cold, I wanted to smash her hand. But I couldn't. Soon the world around us was gone. Soon I was gone. In blackness her and I were together.

She was the one that told me to write this. I wrote it down and read it to her. She said she would tell them all about it. Said she had written it all down herself. She said she would find them and tell him about me. She said he deserved to know the truth. That I deserved to die with that truth.

I hope she gets to him. Then I can rest in peace. All I can say is that time is a twisted thing. It never ends, and sometimes you get lost in it all. And sometimes you go outside of it, but still see it. And sometimes you don't see a future, but you see a past in dreams.

She went away yesterday. She said it had taken a lot out of me to tell her what I had, and that she'd tell them for me, and I'd know when it was time to finally go. I just can't understand what it will feel like to go. But I can't wait, as well as at the same time I can.

All I know is that I deserved to die with the truth. And I've gotten as much of it back as I can. But I didn't want to know. I hate her for it as much as I'm grateful. She forced me to remember everything as much as I could, and made me do my best. Somehow I feel worse knowing the truth. Knowing that I actually didn't kill, that I didn't do it. What's done is done, you can't change it, can you? You can only live with its affects. At least she could talk to me; I should be grateful, I should be happy. Without her they probably would never know, or at least some of them would never know. Without her I wouldn't know, I'd still wander around here in the blackness I've known in sadness and guilt for what I've done.

I'm still afraid of the unknown. Just not as much since I found out as much of the unknown as I could. It was weird, it all seemed the most real in the beginning, then the rest of it seemed blocked. I hope they understand anyway. I hope they can read into what I said. What if they don't? Then one is never going to rest in peace. If they don't know, and can't see it, how can I see it? What if it was really me who killed her, then me? What if it was? What if she couldn't say what I said right? But I did see that word document, it must be true. All of it was written there. It had to have been.

But is it true? Is it?

I'll never know. I guess I just have to live with that, and go on with what's left to me.

[Raiha]

[color=royalblue]Freakish. Not bad at all, the flow is good, although at some points I had difficulting deciphering what it was you were saying.

I would read it again, but I'd probably get a little more depressed. Even though the ending is simply ambiguous. ....at least when I read it.

Props.[/color]

[DeadSeraphim]

Mitch, that was freaky. Having finally completed it without risking permanent eye damage, Alls I can see is freaky. Not that its bad, it is well written (though I agree some bits were rather cryptic) and I liked it. Anyway, yeah. I have no idea how to finish this post politely, except maybe by once again saying I found this story a work of art.

[Mimmsicle]

[COLOR=darkred]I don't think I can put into words what I felt as I read this - or what it made me think.
But it sparked something - maybe I'm not ready for what it's telling me.
It could be that I already know and have placed that information where I've forgotten it exists - some other time, some other place.

The first time you see/experience something, it is beautiful.
As you grow, it either stays beautiful or it transforms - like your lady in the story.

It is up to the person who meets this beauty to decide - whether it be a butterfly or a maggot [size=1](to use your favourite word)[/size] that is cocooned and awaits birth.

In the beautiful butterfly there can be decay awaiting and in the sickly maggot there can be beauty to be found.

- Mimmi[/COLOR]

[Charles]

All right, I'm going to provide critiques piece-by-piece instead of overwhelming you with one gigantic reply. You've told me that you're confused as a writer, so I'm going to provide my insight to help "clear the cobwebs," so to speak.

Keep in mind, that any objections I may have with your writing are being highlighted for the purpose of helping you improve. I'm not going to sugarcoat anything. But, I'll be fair and willing to discuss my observations at length with you. ^_^

[quote][b]She was a most beautiful creature when I first eyed her. She had long black hair, a thin, clear face; petite hands, bony yet well-kept; she had lucent, well-rounded eyes, blue as the ocean. She was a beautiful creature.

But only beautiful when I first eyed her.[/b][/quote]

This is a very nice beginning. Although, I'm not particularly fond of the use of repetition. This paragraph begins and ends with the same idea. I'm not sure you need that. Cutting out the first sentence would benefit your piece. At least, that's the way I see it.

Otherwise, this is very crisp, clean and pretty. It does a nice job of kicking things off in an interesting way. I'm immediately curious. ^^

[quote][b]I first eyed her as I sat getting ready for bed. It had been a tiring day, so I was most tired.[/b][/quote]

Again, this is redundant phrasing. You're saying the same thing twice. You don't need to. ~_^

[quote][b]I stood in my room, the lights turned off, sweet music stuck in my head playing, slowly taking off my clothes.[/b][/quote]

There's nothing dangerously haphazard in your writing here. Just break this up into two sentences and re-arrange a word or two to accommodate the change. Like this:

[quote][b][color=red]I stood in my room, the lights turned off, sweet music stuck playing.in my head. Slowly, I took off my clothes.[/color][/b][/quote]

[quote][b]I must have looked like a dark thing in the darkness, just standing there, the black, vague shadows of my shirt as I took it off dancing; the black, vague shadows of my pants as I took them off cadencing about my little room.[/b][/quote]

Don't take this the wrong way, but I would completely overhaul this excerpt. To say "I must have looked like a dark thing in the darkness" just doesn't work. It's awkward and silly-sounding. Just read it aloud to yourself. If you truly intend to include a simile here, you've got to come up with something better than "dark thing." Of course this individual looked that way in the darkness. You know?

Also, this is all one sentence. You can break after the first sentence and say "I just stood there...". But, at that point, a whole new set of problems present themselves.

Plus, is ?cadencing? a real word? I?ve never heard of it.

Anyway:

[quote][b]just standing there, the black, vague shadows of my shirt as I took it off dancing; the black, vague shadows of my pants as I took them off cadencing about my little room.[/b][/quote]

You repeat vague shadows twice. At this point, I'm assuming the repetition must be intentional--something you've incorporated into your style. But, be careful with it. I'm not sure it's contributing to your work in a positive way.

Otherwise, this doesn't read well nor does it make very much sense. You're having problems with point-of-view.

Let's see if I can clean it up for you:

[quote][color=red][b]I just stood there. The the black, vague shadows of my shirt danced as I removed it. My pants as well casted a similar set of shadows about the small area when I took them off.[/b][/color][/quote]

See? This is much easier to read and it actually makes sense. Don't try to burden yourself with superflous words. The result will be much more polished.

The next part of this paragraph isn't too bad. I'll just add a small layer of polish to it.

[quote][b]I am not sure if she was watching me then and there as I undressed. I am not even sure that, if she was watching, her eyes could see my form clearly. [color=red]Perhaps[/color] she was accustomed to darkness and had the abilities to see [color=red]through[/color] it. But that [color=red]was[/color] not for [color=red]me[/color] to concern myself with. [color=red]Regardless of whether she saw me or not, the crossing of our paths was unavoidable.[/color][/b][/quote]

Moving on:

[quote][b]My room is a small little, homely place. The walls are bare and do not contain anything on them, for I pay little attention to such superfluous things.[/b][/quote]

You've told us the walls are bare. So, you don't need to tell us that there's nothing on them. And, "contain" isn't the word you're looking for unless you're referring to the innards of the walls being filled with something.

I?ll end this post for now. If you?re interested, I?ll always be glad to do another for you.