Between the Lines (Cain’s Alibi in E Minor)

It’s all the dead ants that add up to the reasons I kept out of it. The first order of business, though, is those damn righteous bastards who dwell on decomposition — burnt foot bottoms too, well, there’s that as well. And so, what’s been keeping my company, besides this array of dissatisfied-customer concerns, is an all-too-well-known busted-up Chrysler and some not-so-sensational sets of bearings. At least nobody is currently chucking any stones my way. But I’m not in the business of drying out, here.

You see those trails of ants coming at you from all directions. I’ve never been likely to see any of it coming, though, whatever you might deem “it” to be. In the midst of things, though, you don’t get a chance to look back to see what you might be missing out on, or falling into, as any grave digger might tell you. That clumsy thwack of remorse will lay you out every time. But for me, getting insulted is the least of my troubles.

Picking and poking. That’s about what it all seems to be about, all those missteps, all those times you made up for a bad time by having a better one, and then that time got too good, absolutely unnecessary to be vital anymore, that. The leaders turn into the followers, again and again, and the lines just go and go. But there doesn’t seem to be a reason to it, or for it, I guess. Just one after the other, hanging onto…