The world is a dreadful, snarling place: umbilical … and choking. I left at last and laughed --/
Going to town on a Sunday is no more work than any other day, but the trains run different and the people are different and the rules change even though I don’t ... seem ... to.
The good mischief or the bad? The same in the the end or yesterday’s gone (tuesday) is the same day bleeding together like so many wasted corpses left out in the sun (to tan). Life is wasted on the living, as with everything else. and trying to figure it out is just so much wasted time and space and paper and language games that aren’t any fun and have no set rules and no one even gets drunk there isn’t a point take off your clothes or throw a pie or take a couple shots already!
DO YOU KNOW WHAT THIS MEANS!!?!! no. should i? it didn’t strike me as being important. in the least.
There was a story told in olden days about a man who went to market armed to the teeth but lacking severely in funds. He rolled into town without a care in the world just as the sun was cresting its peak in the glassy blue heavens; he probably was smiling a toothy grin (though one cannot be certain on this point). He killed one shopkeep and threatened the rest, ultimately leaving with all the goods that he desired (or at least as many as he could carry) proceeding to his hideout in the woods. Unbeknownst to him but knownst to us, the men from the market and the village and the surrounding farms got themselves together a posse/lynch mob and went after the murdering son of a bitch. Of course they all died because most farmers and townspeople are shit with the fighting (having only their young hos, sighs, and Satan’s hay tridents to fight with), the hideout was heavily fortified as per standard criminal forethought and as previously stated (in case you forgot or weren’t paying attention the first time) the man was a murdering son of a bitch. Lesson learned.