Shirking your duty as usual you find yourself in the lobby of the church basement.  The marrionettes dance idly in the wind while you look for a clear way to understand something you read once in a paper that was discontinued the moment after you got it after such a long time.  standing in a que waiting to become a frantic lover of the lost art of cosmetic dissipation.  The withered arm of justice holding you on a pedistal of lies fraught with ugly half truths and fragrant mysticism based roughly on tennison farting noisily in a busy downtown strip club.   Dyslexic Christmas elves utopian vision of hell is an ominous mouse that fragments its spirit into a welding helmet baked with prawns and dipped in its own juices until perfection.  there is absolutely everything to be gained by sitting tight, being quiet, and listening.  You can make a living on shelling fish and skating with a relaxed outlook on the pond of malcontent.  There is money to be made. But more importantly there is money to be sought.  Less important than that is life itself.  Life is the conduit of money, money is the essence of modernity.  Modernity is a staple of history ultimately extracting itself from the reality of the current situation which is decidedly grim.  Grimness is simply a metaphor for a meteor shower of titanic proportions which leaves your head dizzy and a tip for the waitress since she brought you those drinks and you just can’t get served without her.  She is an angel on high, possibly on meth.  She is a sultry slut who will take you for a ride, but to where?  To her house?  To her parent’s abode?  Will you meet her sister?  She is the good one.  But she doesn’t care about you at all.  She doesn’t care about anything.  She cares mostly about the situation in Peru where angry villagers have kidnapped a police chief and are holding him hostage.  But she doesn’t even really care that much about that.  She is truly splendid


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