Please accept this with the caveat that I am sleep-deprived and angry-accept it in the spirit with which it is intended: I hope you fuckers all get cancer.
Let me start again.
I have been on an adventure. This is not unusual-I have adventures regular. Usually of the 10-15 minute variety, sometimes along the lines of a few hours, or a day. This one's more like five or six days, and sometime-probably tomorrow-I'll tell you its story.
As is my wont. As is my sad affliction.
But for now, know that my adventure has been bookended. Bookended by what? I hear you say. I'm glad you asked.
I find I measure my life in days. As in the-moment-I-rise-until-the-moment-I-fall-asleep days. And I have frittered, murdered, wasted and pissed away some of those days. I've burgled time, and had it burgled by Time Burglers. Not Time Bandits, though. Midgets are a hack move.
Rarely, though, have I seen days like these. Aborted days. Bloody days, punctured and vacuumed from the womb that is my newly opened eyes in the morning, drawn dead and awful through a ragged birth canal that is the narrow hours I spent awake when I should have been asleep. I make the mudra of travel, and scatter the three-horned mudra of damnation like poison birdseed everywhere I step.
See you tomorrow.
Let me start again.
I have been on an adventure. This is not unusual-I have adventures regular. Usually of the 10-15 minute variety, sometimes along the lines of a few hours, or a day. This one's more like five or six days, and sometime-probably tomorrow-I'll tell you its story.
As is my wont. As is my sad affliction.
But for now, know that my adventure has been bookended. Bookended by what? I hear you say. I'm glad you asked.
I find I measure my life in days. As in the-moment-I-rise-until-the-moment-I-fall-asleep days. And I have frittered, murdered, wasted and pissed away some of those days. I've burgled time, and had it burgled by Time Burglers. Not Time Bandits, though. Midgets are a hack move.
Rarely, though, have I seen days like these. Aborted days. Bloody days, punctured and vacuumed from the womb that is my newly opened eyes in the morning, drawn dead and awful through a ragged birth canal that is the narrow hours I spent awake when I should have been asleep. I make the mudra of travel, and scatter the three-horned mudra of damnation like poison birdseed everywhere I step.
See you tomorrow.
No comments:
Post a Comment