So here we are: midnight, boozed up, letting the brain go like an old Viking who threw the oars to the deep with a curse to the creature who impedes its progress into the heart of King Sea and drifts, waiting for the sun to make of him a mummy to deliver to distant shores.
But do we kid ourselves with this? Words are power, are spells, are vibrations in the air, are throat ejaculations given meaning by a thousand years of cowardice in the face of mammalian burp magic. What word ever changed the world? What sound can distract the looming Juggernaut (all trees dying at one time and falling in an Earth-ending answer to an ancient question)?
Do these uniform tick marks convey anything to the realm of stimulus a buzz with bees unworldly (drones and queens both dancing to the tune you’ve heard all the every time before)? Or should we rip and fling bullets from our eyes and kill our readers before they crack open the first page to save them the boredom of looking, staring, processing, pretending, remarking, etc.?
Too many questions this night. Better to free my fingers than to add to the confusion. Watch the skin part. Watch them fall, crooked sausages full of bone.