It, self, lit up like an oil rig at night – that is to say, poorly: one, a torch, skyscraper height & blasphemous; the rest, dancing cigarettes. Even with the wave directed well, light won’t penetrate the pellicle that surrounds [xxx]. All that reinforced concrete, it’s a wonder the thing is still afloat.
The sentimental Visigoths that haunt the passageways are no longer a going concern; transit papers are signed and lodged, no want of xylene and/or toluene to jeapordise the exercise. Quarter-pilling now for the taste of it, that metal tang, and to dampen the shunting of brain juices from one hemisphere to the other.
Bus to Death Seaside, sit on the double eyeing the Quidditch scores and praying for thoughts and desires to hazy fade away. [xxx] am Capt.-Lt. Henrich Lehmann-Willenbrock in a thin-walled, sleep-veiled boîte: pressure builds, rivets pop, drenched.
Two nights of hearing the screams at night and [xxx] catch the next bus out of town. Back home to talking big game and squirming through the night. Our hero has a name: Belvedere, post-diluvian.
Written on Monday, 7 July 2014