When the past reaches out with dessicated tendrils to draw strength from the moist effluence of Life -- we have a problem. I've been reminded (with handcuffs) of some old traffic tickets going back nineteen years! There is still a warrant for my arrest. My response, addressed with force to those neo-nazi cunts, was simple in its elegance, and is as follows: Go perform a painful biological act with thy subservient self!
Release was gained by the force of physical necessity. Apparently, it is against the law to prevent a severely intoxicated person from going to the hospital. So those uniformed pigs went against their nature and shipped me off safely to a comfy spot, where I ate good food, jerked off to nurses, and slept like an anaesthetized bear.
Home again. Much to ponder ... and destroy.
Needless to say, I am now keeping my face out of the main thoroughfares, and buying my booze (and biding my time) through the agency of a trusted other.
My time is bided. A critical crack to the neck will give me great solace. But this is, of course, all fiction. no one should take my murderous fantasies the least bit seriously.
So!
The slackening and sickening of reflective life ... the drained mood of selfish concern ... the purposeless ones meander through avenues leading only to a silent torpor ... the continual maintenance of a persona (knowing damned well nobody cares!) ... the cradling of one's stillborn brats in slitted arms that show like graceless wounds upon a clumsily tortured slave ... the final cudgeon-blow to the head of one's own loves ... the petty excuses, the terror of Night, the hateful face of the Sun ... the growth of a pattern out of all this! -- and Why? Demons don't just dance in mediaeval forests: they circumbambulate right here, in the sad cast-off terrifyingly fucked-up thing we call the present.
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