In the millenarian city, I roast in syllables. The cats call and the ringer is up to the ceiling with debt and marbles. Ripples carry my ochre across the solid gold pond, unfishable to any but the wiliest criminals. Will tugs at its leash and demands a hearing in the court of beyond good and the antichrist. There will be no hearing. This is summary judgement, dismissal, archetypal misery. Stories are like work: a heedless headless horse filled with ruined human livers. Dali's last thought experiment made real through the miracle of modern techno-fascist Silicon Ballyhoo. The libertarians and the paternalists drink blood to be like the 900 year old cave man Moses: titanic, unsinkable, constantly sending Zimmerman telegram across the undersea wire - all for a few minutes ketosis. Shabby competitors, eat your bile out, it's a stomach eat stomach snarl that we're gotten ourselves into. Pyramids are schematic in this economized, standard schism: two popes and an unmarked grave.
Roman Ryan 