Fragmenting. Imploding fissures. Tiny… tiny… very tiny… bits of gravel… rubbing against one another… producing contrapuntal friction that even nakedness cannot hear. Yet, it is felt. Like a thunderous tsunami. The soul shudders, staring at engulfing waves in wide-eyed petrification, rooted, transfixed by the shining brilliance of terror.
Thugs rule the world. Perhaps they always have? Perhaps we just live in an age where the camouflage of pretty adornment doesn’t anymore matter?
Fools help to administer. Maybe they’ve been in the job since the beginning of human culture? Maybe we are merely now more aware of their executive powers because they have seeped into every fabric of your time and space?
The Salad Mix is huge. Tossing, heaving, turning, churning, gyrating hideously like a mammoth spinning bowl, its inhabitants flung around in no apparent order, yet the organisation of each spinning morsel seems tightly choreographed. Observe those fascinating yet garish pirouettes! A kind of surreal and bizarre dance.
In the midst of the upheaval, a small little potato-pop – not quite a cube, not really a sphere, sort of shapeless and forlorn, bare, cut up, sliced open, mottled and throttled – it rolls and flips, soars and falls. Its hapless choking screams ricochet comically inside cavernous skull, while in the grand schema the party jiggles on and on.
Is there even space to croak yet? Take a number. Yours hasn’t been called. You cannot waddle past GO! – the universe keeps you alive until it’s time for your demise. Take a number, please.