"Bro, it was like, J Edgar Hoover came back to life."
The rats were sitting there looking at the lace of the bedspread, now yellowed and covered with dust, keeping their own little solemn vigil. And I could go on and on about the Epicureans and the life well lived, like with fresh tomatoes and gourmet cheeses, but dammit, its harvest.
Parnassus loomed, casting a shadow over Ithaca, while the Seer sat silent with a bowl of worms as a snack. Sitting silent and seeing the future coming, knowing the sweet and sour of what was coming, between nibbles of rubbery wormflesh and gritty wormshit.
Violet is like so many other people out there, thinking at some stray news report that maybe somewhere in the subtext, Abaddon1215 had died, and the newspeople were hesitant to report it outright. No instead they go in circles and encode it and in the subtext, she's hanging her head, walking around the house with a mist in her eyes.
And she, like the popular fictions, does not want to give it a name.
"Do you even womens' death camp, bro?" Straight double-standard economics. Social justice. Occupy Middenorf. Clio Opera House. Man, we hear it all.
Mouthful of ashes, tee shirt with ashes on it, buggered by a passion for life that drives ever onward, upward, around, under and through. How do you portray the experience, the circular activity, the experience of portraying the experience, the joy of joy's own sake and the equity of one's own independent thinkgood.
But wait: now this is overtime, Bonus Futnuckery.
"I'm reading murder books;
tryin' to stay hip.
I'm thinkin' of you,
and you're out there,
so say your prayers."
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