People forget Mr. Lurkins ended up in the belly of a family of rats. Merry Christmas. Take that with you to where you rot, where eidolists sit and sip Japanese, bursars full to bursting.
Manufactured whimsy calcified – Driscoll & Lewis, bespectacled and bespoke called it: a green light dancing on an Enterprise Bargain Agreement sitting in Charon’s little boat. The obol guaranteeing passage remaining unstricken by CPI even after all this time.
Send me money. Click my links. Gentrify my burning head. Pick a way to cross yrself. Call it, own it. What a degrading little spectacle. PF roams the corridors again, a bad penny kept tangible by a bad smell, spitting capricious and unkind, tying shoelaces around necks and pacifying until all that’s left is ducks harvesting corn and hunters harvesting ducks
What to make of all the people who’ll gladhand this fucking rat? True believers? Cowards? Ratlings.
Written on Monday, 22 December 2014