Ducked it for too long, but got caught with that right-eye glaze – that deckled edge on the lens awards cataract wisdom... & not much else. Call it, -tribution: ripped of a prefix and left for dead.
Let’s find one!
At-, for the instigator of this milky-eyed mess. God? Too lofty a word for the long con inside man. ‘Sides, who can tell a mark from a shill anymore? Not me. Not with these eyes.
Re-, for revenge: a fool’s errand in light of the above. In any case, who’s to blame? Stalled at at-, the re- leaves you screaming at trees. A monkey crucified in vain because the Strugatsky’s were right:
We.
Are.
Ants.
Con-, to what’s left. Make the best of it, apply whatever modicums you can, especially when the descent into decrepitude and planned obsolence comes a decade shy of the starting gun.
Still, Dis-. In 2015. It feels like it was me me me. What did I do to deserve this? I was happy in the sweatshop, never had no need to dance at all.
Written on Tuesday, 1 December 2015