Dot Eth

No. 591
No. 591

But a Momentary Merriment

It is impossible to ascertain the purpose of this travel, the reason for this voyage. It is only necessary to place one’s head between one’s knees and cower in front of it all. I am somber in my wake, my sleeplessness ever-present and chuckling still, glorious delirium standing strong upon the hillside, looking down on any and few, many and shortness is my breath today.

“Have you will-not?” the beggar asks of me, himself rotund and unapologetic, his vacant stare worthy of note and torn to shreds still soon. Unmoving and steadfast goes this night, quickly the pace yet not at once, tomorrow’s blight is forever more.

“Say it twice-times, betwixt this present stand and tongue-tied you shall be,” says the pompous man, the one who spat upon the very idea, the cleverness erupting and shouting back: “One can not decide the present, he who looks upon it with a disdainful eye is but a mockery of himself.”

Can we agree? Have we the strength to argue and the courage to deny? I should think not, indeed, for this day brings with it a merriment and a pleasure, the severed appendage always restful in its basket, the tender loving dear. A forthright fortnight, a weekly dispatch from the moor. Our subscription grows tired and weary with this increasing fright, the daintily observant creature protests and bickers, a terrible strangulation with not more.

Are the kiddies tucked in and safe in preparation for this day? Have they had their milk and horror, an instilled fear of what is not known, a bountiful description of the monsters they must certainly abhor? What a jolly folly, this silly game we play! Let us rest but for a while, our collective head is loose and disjointed, the problems ever increasing in this terror state. It is only for an hour that I wish to cease, soon I will be refreshed and reminded, what a fond disgrace we have made, within this unwholesome fevered place.