Dirty Fractyl
2002-05-20 16:04:26 (UTC)

Waking gently

She said, "We've calculated the distance to the sun."

"Oh, is that so?"

"Yes, 93 million miles."

"That's a lot of unleaded gasoline."

The jokes persisted, the clouds resisted, and rain fell
much later than expected. Sitting amongst knats and house
flies, we sipped on pink lemonade, slightly laced with gin,
as we became slightly drunk, and only half as
philosophical, feeling more mentally weary than stimulated
in any case.

"Froth and frogs fill the ditch and the people deny."

"Step away from the tank."

"Your head is no longer."

Walk away like MacBeth crossed with a chicken and count
days till the next full moon. Each day is 3.57% of a moon
cycle. Spin the top and throw the die whil'st eternity
slips away like the sand that is used to count its
passing. The curvature of space-time leaves us blinded by
gravity and the existance we cannot relegate to another
force nor decipher its encoded madness. Walking with an
air of ambivalence, life insurance is purchased, wills are
written; last rights administered. The horizontal
asymptote on the cardiograph remains to be seen, but it
will greet the doctor soon, and the "life-support"
equipment shall be unplugged, and rolled to the next
patient to board the ship of death.

"All the fuck aboard," shouts the black hooded
conductor. "Next stop, hell, you stupid fucks." It
appears as though I have stepped onto the wrong train. Or
apparently there is no right train. This is kind of like
Austchitz with Hitler replaced by this reaper carrying,
tall, lanky fella up front. He's not too social, but we
can smell the weed coming out of his hood. He's chiefing,
that's for sure.

Read the Articles
Of Confederation
A New Generation
Condemned to Death
But free of Segregation.