Assessing the Flow of Things
Make the cut. Make the grade. Meet the deadline. Lop off the king’s head and start over. The best minds of any generation, flushed down the toilet.
I have difficulty getting my bearings. I clear my throat and it turns into a wind tunnel. Astronauts in pressurized suits go tumbling by, waving with grins on their faces. They’re but children, off to meet the wizard. I wave back. There’s no sense in hostility.
Hatred is a form of self-centeredness. At least that’s what I’ve been led to believe. By the nose, on a leash, like a pony. One image shape shifts into another and then the bleeding starts, straight out through the pores. People move back a safe distance and pretend there’s no gravity. I wave and grin but I refuse to tumble.
Clocks tick.
Time flies.
My impact is marginal.
