It's a cold that inspires belief in the big empty between suns. Hollow winds bemoan the soulless city, the quiet evils that occur when inhuman numbness conquers condition. concentrated apathy shields me from His sight, nobody beseeches Him in joy or fear...a place long lost to coital glory and the struggles to justify existence. no glowing windowed homes, teasing outsiders with warm inclusion...no pitying eyes, reminding you of the missing pieces, the gaps of being. the coast sprouts evidence of man's halfhearted ambitions...formless buildings of partially realized function. dull warts, on a hatchet face.
...the forsakenest alley, in the foulest comedo on the backside of yesteryear and a cumbersome jug of the local white lightning...slate skies, gray bricks, gunmetal causeways...a hole to induce the relief of forgetting: your shard of Allspark, the aggravating remembrance of hope when one foolishly yearned to form an individual's desires, friends screwed over, compassion/mercy withheld, Pavonis Mons 2107, promises unkept, costly failures of skill and valor, Dresden 1945...
humanity was first granted clarity of self aware memory, secondly ethanol, thirdly the town drunk...karma...local directionless young males without opportunity no longer test my resolve or that of the other animal ronin keeping the rat population in check. Only had to geld and feed the scraps to three of them.
deep cover is always risky. investing enough into the story to pull it, necessitates living it...but out in the open was deemed the likeliest success. no need to fake the shakes, or the joy of forgetting, anymore. even the Russian Grey kept warm and fed has her claws anchored deep. shitty American electronics lasted a year, no way to activate me.
so sit, drink, cuddle Anastasia, thump thugs, eat rat borscht, and glimpse the Borealis when possible. the peace time of an ascetic, except for the copious grain alcohol...
who is coming with me?
