Slap or the stick, sometimes that’s what’s needed to get that [f]ilth pumping through the ventricles again, to get that weekly aortic squeeze. After so many years one would expect the process to be coded in the gemes (sic), a kind of last minute vindication of Lamarckism.
But my partner is a zafty one, easily imposed upon in that 19th way, requiring only the jetsam of new words three to turn into the sun and run and run and run. The Abel to my Cain, what can I offer that will be as pleasing to the lord but a decrepit, halitosic oath that as long as the containment grid is accepting words then words shall I deposit.
This is because, being more than a simple reliquary, [t]he [w]ax is an anchor, tying me down to my life and preventing the filthy drift into the artless and the incurious and the life with no internal component. Isaiah 63:17
No, this is what I do, and what I will do. I swear.
Et maintenant que je suis en train de mourir à nouveau, my retinas become stained with the image of an odd Asian man in a Batman mask, watching me, expectant of my words. I sit down to type.
I am sorry, my friend.
Written on Wednesday, 20 November 2013