The End of Nothing.

Better to say it. My hand reaches for the the cup. Bitter tea. Morning. Late morning. I do wish for yesterday. Not glowing nostalgic yesterday. Yesterday when things weren't so predictably boring. And being safe wasn't an anecdote for corporate strategy. And the machines left some scraps — perhaps a ligament or two — for consideration during self mutilation. Better to say it. Being awkward. AWKWARD. Awkwardly human. The beauty of it all. The absense of pretense — not being complete before you're golden brown. Flakey. Crusty. Better to say it.

The next forty years? Joke. Ha. Giggle. Predictably boring. Death isn't a new concept. Life will be to those who survive the machine. Is it memorial day yet? Better to say it. Today.

Labels: good, prose, resistance, revolution