Time flexing like a whore

Too little of it, need more to look at a picture of black and white fur. Nights are desolate places in my mind, no one watching, no one purring.

And too much of it. How much longer obliging this hobby-turned-into-job-and-hating-the-hobby. I had so many dreams, had so many break throughs.

Can I go back over twelve years, when the deadline was tomorrow and I wasn't even 30? Where I'd work a full day, come home and tend the flowers and weeds, and still find energy and time to spend with my friends who now sometimes keep me awake anight with their urgent questions. Always the same questions, as it is. Where will we go? How will we end? Tell us, write it all down...

Is that you, CowWatcher?
What was the name you called me? (wind - called - crow - lift head - lonely)






Head like hole

Nobody gives a fuck.
Nobody gives a fuck.
Nobody gives a fuck.
Nobody gives a fuck.
Nobody gives a fuck.
Nobody gives a fuck.
Nobody gives a fuck.
Nobody gives a fuck.
Nobody gives a fuck.
Nobody gives a fuck.
Nobody gives a fuck.
Nobody gives a fuck.
Nobody gives a fuck.
Nobody gives a fuck.
Nobody gives a fuck.
Nobody gives a fuck.
Nobody gives a fuck.
Nobody gives a fuck.
Nobody gives a fuck.
Nobody gives a fuck.
Nobody gives a fuck.
Nobody gives a fuck.
Nobody gives a fuck.
Nobody gives a fuck.
Nobody gives a fuck.
Nobody gives a fuck.
Nobody gives a fuck.
Nobody gives a fuck.
Nobody gives a fuck.
Nobody gives a fuck.
Nobody gives a fuck.
Nobody gives a fuck.
Nobody gives a fuck.
Nobody gives a fuck.
Nobody gives a fuck.
Nobody gives a fuck.
Nobody gives a fuck.

It sucks

like mud covered up by a fine layer of dust and a tangle of flowers.

There you are, all  ladeedaying about in the busy busy life and then some little synaps suddenly decides to make your skin and muscles remember how it felt, the weight of him on one arm and all spread out over your lap, the very gentle swell of his breathing, the little rumble with which he'd start purring, the total abandon after a deep sigh of content. An infinite universe of memory compressed into a little black hole that pulls an alien croak from your throat.

And you stumble along through a day suddenly broken, one feet naked, boot still stuck in the mud.

Wrath & tears babeh.

THEY took him, digiblips.
The sole living creature that has accepted my crap for 16 years.

The problem is, life has been so much crap, for months, the last couple of years, I can no longer feel. It hurts, but I feel the festering below, the no-hurt festering, the slow sleeping toxin.

He's gone. poof, like that.

HE WAS HERE YESTERDAY GODDAMMINT.

I'm so anrgy. I'm angry because I'm angry; I've got more self control than this. Angry at being angry helps.

Helps them.

They don't see. They don't know.

I see them, whispering, there she comes, that hysteric cunt.

They don't know the hysterics are all that keep me from simple killing them. Killing is easy. You don't even need a Kalashnikov like those bastards in Paris. A car, a bit of fire, all will do. There's a wind out, and it's howling King Lear's speech. They'll drown. I've got lightning at my fingertips if I call for it.

Killing is easy.

They are all digiblips.

Bastards. They took my Steerpike from me. They will pay.

Karma

Bitch.

The Cross

Hello there, strangers, we must stop meeting like this.

How are you, digiblips?
Because, I'm having a major bum day.

A sort of AA day.

Hello, my name is Wildheit and I'm addicted to saying yes. I will try to help you, and anybody that asks for that matter, to the detriment of my own life and health.


Add some tears for effect.

Also add a sprinkle of failure, because you can't help everybody. You just go tits up.

The tats... The tats you get in people telling you no and sorry and all the lame and half-assed excuses you know so very well because they bounce around in your head, day in, day out, but never roll, slip or stumble from your tongue. They make it sounds so easy!

And when you're really done with trying and trying, there is but one option: admitting failure.

Rat's ass, that's even harder than saying no.

Cue the flood.

Edge.

Things have edges.
Sometimes sharply defined.
Sometimes fuzzy and rounded and toddler-safe.

This thing today has the tact ('tactility' whispers Cow Watcher) of blunt force trauma with the in-your-face sharpness of a razor.

That was what it was, you see.
Razor sharp, the knife wrapped in a towel, which she had stashed in her bag.
Razor sharp, her drawn and grim face, eyes crazed and furious and the unseen people that live in the walls of her apartment.

If that's how your mom responds to an invitation to coffee and cake, it's time to get your head out of the sand.

This is going to be one hell of a fun week.