Monday, October 24, 2005

The Only Thing You'll Find is Your Tombstone


There was much laughter last night, and much strangely twisted plotting and planning. People in flea-ridden garb being who they’re not for a few atavistic days and many raves in the night. There was accompanying gunfire from close quarters and smoke and much sulfur in the air. Having been, the evening before, revealed as a charlatan preacher and itinerate blues musician proved to only be more fuel for the upcoming events.

Strangely bent urban legends scrawling limerick and wasted ode of momentary desire and faithfulness to roaring drunks from Albuquerque. Somehow, the nut of the situation revolved around the loss of chewing gum flavor. The seemingly sure thing made a strange turn into rage and ignorance and oblivion. We, in this business of observation, found ourselves as participants again; participants in a game reserved for the young and sorrowful and the insanely depraved of an older more secure age.

Here, after living out the last half of the American Century in angst and isolation from the ones we love, we stood again at the proverbial crossroads. Make the bargain with old Scratch and begin anew with a lifetime, albeit a short one, of talents secured, or remember tales of halcyon days of youth lived and loved long before these days of a world gone wrong? Somehow the choice is a simple one, the former being left for another day and the latter shining like some madly blinding gem glistening on the desert horizon.

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rumpy pumpy
 
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