You would have managed better if
I asked you why. Why did you orchestrate a tour around the nape of her
tribulations? It makes her feel mucky and unanswerable, it hurts me to think of
such a prized member of our trust feeling that way. I insist that you explain
to me what she has done to frustrate you so and then I'll decide if you need
the bread to carry on. Peter, John and James are all keeping the beehives in
check but for how long in this railing climate control? Moons are toothless and
the rest of the skies are too distant to borrow a cup of possibilities from. I
am a broken man cluttering up the hallway of gamey misfortune. I am just a
broken man.
What do you mean by that? Thanks
for the ask, I'll address the issue with a bit of my own brand of trouble. I
live in a state of constant coolness, a self-perpetrated condition of racy
chills charging and roaming about my innards. They explained to me, the doctors
that is, that I am in fact a talk show host willing my audience into existence.
Otherwise they're nonexistent. I'm actually not wholly abhorred because of
that. The real and honest rage comes from those who plunge musical direction
into torrents of abstract thinking. They want to eat my refrigerated innards
like a suave cyclist does his quiche.
There are always those who seek
to stop our flow, to revert our mind chips to the point where we were all
entirely dependent on the faulted system and thereby couldn't see the majority
of its faults. Oh we saw the faults that concerned us, the rationing of orange
juice and the robe policy for guardians, but we were complacent and malleable.
Now my brain exceeds the size of the red sky, it bloats with horror at the
prospect of another forty million years in hyperspace without a clue to carry
us to Point G. The caricature of me now is so vocally racist, I am forced to be
a good guest for Rome.
We need him back, the Waxy Monk.
The Waxy Monk has our just desserts wrapped up in dinner suits and flocking
about the place with mild damnation. We need him to crush the Meta-Caesar with
noticeably salacious conduct. So you talk to me, you kindly scum, you spill
your madness out first and then you tell me why we are seeking in the wrong
direction. We'll shatter your king yet, his harmless flogging is claiming our
aching back as its own produce.
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