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Promises to Keep
Don’t you keep thinking things like, “Mutilated catastrophes of less-than-holy spirits randomly counted by an automated conjecturing system.” I mean: “don’t” as a statement starter, not a question’s incipient structure. That’s all. I proclaim my own silence, deduced from crushed sanity’s jeopardized morality.
Perfect. A predilection for remorse goes with your shoes, Sonny Gal. Complicit as always in the measured trusses of thinking’s doing. All itchy with incitement’s immediate furor, the revelers, staunch and purpose-driven, were off to their commiserating devices. Wielding home-made stabbing implements with attached flags, they marauded their way to slicker pavement, as if it were a slab of cement named after them, probably some kvetched love song that never made it up the charts much that they were singing along with, without knowing many of the lyrics but only the chorus for the most part, and it wasn’t beautiful at all. But watching became a full-time armchair support system. People believed what they say fit to believe to boost their position. And there was an ineffable furor in the tenebrous UBC-charging strikes of the evening’s weather pattern. Nobody was on anybody else’s side. Charts were shown and then redrawn as maps. Figures were related with imprecision and gusto and in tear-inducing rhapsodies. Everyone agreed that maybe, sure, they all could have died at the hands of maniacs. But, surely, who…
