Backing away does not work, as the disembodied and the hysterical pursue me. They take my hand and turn on the water works. I feel used and put upon.
Shuffling through the entities with complicated causes I am able to pull out one recognizable voice. His spiel is selling train tickets to a spiritual pilgrimage, or charging for the indulgence of your choice. You had a choice. You actually had a choice. He could sum up the present situation snappier than an Oscar F. O. W. Wilde remark. He was from NYC, was anywhere anything important happened, had an old guy ponytail, AND his every other word was a bomb. — Well, I chose to have live strangers in the trunk of the car for ballast.
I need to get this puss out of my system, as my mind is too foggy to tell truth from fiction, assuming fiction exists. My mind is as dull as a butter knife. Willie’s razor would be chasing down these negligible trivialities with a bulldozer in high demand if the human condition wanted simplicity of reasoning. But alack and alas, it has never been so.
‘Nephew, what means this passionate discourse, This peroration with such circumstance?’
At some point the voices from a lifetime cycle back through and seem well known. We search and appreciate the kindred on un-familiar territory even within our grappling to find the excitingly new.