Dear sister.
Boulogne is so far behind me. All of it I have left is your presence in my heart.
Today we enter the city at the center of the world. I am fearful of this penetration perpetrated by me. They wish to style me “King.” I will not accept.
musics, stories, movies, randoms, photos, clothes ...l'auteur
• Question?
Dear sister.
Boulogne is so far behind me. All of it I have left is your presence in my heart.
Today we enter the city at the center of the world. I am fearful of this penetration perpetrated by me. They wish to style me “King.” I will not accept.
He hated those fucks.
He had an appointment with the D.A. to discuss prosecution of the cult when it hit him: “Wait… If you disregard their outdated jargon, this religion is TOTALLY marketable.”
He got in the car and took off, driving from state to state pitching his new Story.
The grubby, primitive and hirsute male squatted over his broken rock. Lifting the shard, he cut himself by accident. He dropped the stone.
In a tree a crow cocked his head in fleeting curiosity.
The man looked back down and grabbed his new thing. He walked away. The crow followed.
Talk is cheap, he thought. I need to write something.
He got out his laptop and set to work. I’m gonna write something today, he thought.
A few email receipts later, nothing was done but his Christmas shopping. He looked at the decorative typewriter and made a decision.
“Shut down.”
I have been “kept” for most of my adult life. I am pampered. I don’t have to work. I am bathed while I bask in the sun. I weigh a lot, but no one seems to care. In fact, they seem to like it. I’m a ’57 Chevy Bel Air.
Possibly the most insightful thing the writer said… he said to his kid brother: “We are cooking onions. And if you think about it… the only ingredients we added were heat and time.” The twelve year old brother’s foot was broken. His precocious assent was validated by the sweet Vidalia.
They plunked along the corduroy road, quarts of moonshine threatening suicide from the back seats. The Model T had lost its windshield at the local speakeasy, and dust painted the travelers’ sweating bodies.
The man took a swig of hooch and looked at his companion: a woman of easy virtue.
I played in the woods. I kept my dreams there in a box.
It contained an old copy of Bulfinch’s Mythology, and a plan for running away at 12 years old. It was just for play.
Mom found it and I’m not allowed to play in the woods any more.
The city loomed like so many concrete prison guards watching his routine. “No slip ups this time,” they said.
He pulled his hat down and his trench coat around him. Crossing the wet grit of illuminated pavement, he saw his mark.
He eased a greasy revolver out of his pocket…
The soldiers in the trench talked of home.
“Your family owns a ranch?”
“Sure,” he answered, cleaning his rifle.
“Like goats and shit? Sheep?”
“No… Land, trucks, guns, hunting. We hunt the wildlife.”
“Oh.”
“It’s a lot like here, really.”
“Except here we’re hunting people, not animals.”
“Hearts and minds.”
