The Wax Conspiracy

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Countrysat, hereness declared. Rows of houses sat on rotted ground. Transpose that sumna -> dodgy foundations for periodontal disease. What pass them slicks lodge in the duodenum to be iron-leached and kerosene swabbed.

Smell that smell? A Pine O Cleen-clean that’ll stick with you to the very end. Cancer strick, cain’t goldilocks your way out of bad genes, bad habits and worser predispositions. Unlucky. Sing it!

Litmus-dip the cylinder, spin that sucker and slap it back: five in six plus whatever little more for heavy slugs and a well-oiled Marlowe. Call it. Fate and such... Chigurh knew it. Now you do too.

He came up to me, stumbling, enthused, a wiry haired musophobe. You shoulda seen him, big Seth Brundle hair and razor gang pleats.

And he said to me

and he said to me

“God, why you gotta be
god, why you gotta be
such a fucking disease?”

But I knew he didn’t mean me.

Belvedere Jehosophat

Written on Thursday, 19 March 2015

The Wax Conspiracy

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