Chris, Joseph and Chris's Mother

Chris thought it had more to do with family, though that’s not how he felt under different circumstances. Joseph always felt and thought the same, though he did not always feel or think the same as Chris. Chris would debate with Joseph frankly at first but always allow himself to slip in buttery metaphors.
Joseph waited outwardly patiently but yearned inside to hurry though Chris’s succinct, boring inauguration and relieve his salivation upon florid, symbolic imagery. Chris knew as he juiced his imagination on to Joseph that he was most certainly not telling the truth. Lying sounded intentional and cruel. Chris rather thought of himself as a romantic troubadour of relatable fiction.
At his childhood home, he had read many books aloud to his mother She would sit him on the foot of the bed and fall asleep to his voice. She never learned English and she had never listened to the words Chris would read aloud to her. Chris, with his mother in bed beneath the earth of Eastfield Cemetery, felt as much a liar now orating his imagination to Joseph as he did reading a foreign language to his mother.
Joseph knew English very well and knew Chris’s mother very poorly. Joseph was glad to hear allusions to Chris’s mother in grand illusions of love’s ambivalence. Chris enchanted Joseph with his mother’s Vestal-Virgin glow, he said to be so bright in order that her luminance would his her cerebral dullness.
Lies felt good to Chris. If he thought hard at the foot of his bed when he could not sleep he would think himself into a dream. Roses smelt just as sweet even to his mother who knew not their name to speak of them.