Gutter Dogs

It is detestable.

The irrevocable solution slides down on us like an avalanche in slow-mo. There is nothing we can do, but hope to survive the impact. We will be buried, for certain. And we will emerge as survivors, from this cataclysmic implosion of flash freeze, hypothermia, chilblains, and frostbite. To put it likely, we will be hurled into an electric wire-mesh fence. It will be an epic transformation since Kafka, or at least, the first Transformers movie that gave every G1 fans serious butt hurt. I hate you, Michael Bay.

Getting back on track. It falls down to three things: A) We will be reassigned, into the deepest, darkest, corners of this micro-demon world. It is a place where people go mad, and take the rope around their necks when the fire inside them becomes too much to bear. B) No false pleasantries exchanged, because no words are needed. We will be taken to the back alley, where we will be shot in the back of our heads. In the process, we will be made men. That actually sounds like a good thing. Finally; C) The slightest glimmer of hope, where we are granted amnesty – which leads to C.1) Exile, or C.2) A second wind.

That mentioned second wind, of course, will either be temporary and we will be thrown into the gutters anyway. Or, well, a second, honest wind. That doesn’t sound right. Anyhow, by then, either questions have been raised, like, What the Fungus-Fucking thing is happening, or here I am, detested under a spotlight with row after row of empty seats. Enter, the ever-thoughtful, whistles-on-cue tumbleweed.

Suffice to say, what happened was a colossal fuck up. One that is not worth mentioning about. Just know that it was something that cannot easily be forgiven. What matters, is the surge of raw thoughts that wouldn’t shut the F up in my head. So here they, words without meaning, thoughtless ramblings, and visceral screams – I bring you, to the weather… that, wasn’t right. Too much Welcome to Night Vale. I just finished listening to both Old Oak Doors episodes, and they were awesome. Download the episodes, if you haven’t all ready. Anyway, random blathering, yes, and, no, I don’t feel like telling it now. I’ve been writing this entire for some time, and somewhere amid the words, I lost interest in putting those thoughtless words.

They are, after all, just plain nonsensical ramblings. Things about a flotilla of dead things, red skies, phallic-shape things bursting from someone’s chest, a Woman with Blaring Red Eyes, and the Girl seen Through the Dusty Glass, and other things. Maybe, tonight, I’ll jot them down, when I watch Robin Williams one more time in Dead Poet Society. For now, there is only this, and the Goliath known as “You Had One Job.”

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