A distant rumble, a mighty sound of confusion and distance
Your bells begin to buzz
The safe frowns
Cows have broken from the teahouse
And suckle the you with stagnant milk
I give warning to those who are deaf
My thoughts and actions don’t match
Paisley jumpsuits with striped ties
I will disinfect you with words of stew
And shellac your carapace with passionate words of insouciance
I will open your choleric bellies and fertilize my field with your fatty liver
Before tearing away your incontinent sex organs
I warn you,
I am antiseptic

Work

I'm sitting here contemplating life when I should be working. If to create is to invoke and evoke, then to destroy must be to define and describe. This is a message of destruction. The cubicle is flimsy here with a permanence that can rend your connection with humanity. It's framework is the color of old bones stained with black tea, exactly one month. The fabric stretched loosely over the frame is drab olive with a random pattern of darker olive printed on top, allowing drab olive x's and dots to show through in what must be some madman's idea of an ethnic motif. The desk is a corner unit wedged into two cubicle walls, an ill fitting contrivance made from two filing cabinet structures and matching,manufactored supports under the corner. It all goes together. The bone color is repeated everywhere.

Is this supposed to inspire me to work harder? To help those less fortunate?

Yes.

And so it does. I realize sitting here that this flimsy structure from office supply hell is surely more structurally sound than that which others live in. I am almost thankful, in my magnanimity, for my soul sucking existence. I don't help anyone directly, but perhaps obliquely. Having traded in my pittance for a chance at putting better qualified individuals in a position to directly affect the lot of others, I find myself here. It would be noble, but I am mainly working for filthy lucre. Does that make the good I do less pristine?

Absolutely yes.

Absolutely no.

Those helped could care less if I'm paid. Those helped could care less if the person in their face is paid. Those helped could care less if I exist. Another nameless shadow-figure could fill my position. Another nameless shadow-figure will take over from me. I am a nameless shadow-figure for those who have preceded me. I exist only in the obscure here.

A veritable quintessence of fiction

For reasons beyond their kin, this harmony of opinions on fine living, a fortuitous
confluence of tastes, formed an instantaneous bond of union; a profound understanding
of sensuality which blazed forth in every one of Sandoval’s looks and words striking
Georgette very forcibly. His speech, brutal like truth, then delicate and perfumed,
the expression of past conversion, the secret of which was known only to him, won
for him a heart, if in ignorance. Sandoval, caught in his bedroom passion, noticed
with a deep and enlivened satisfaction that he recognized, on inspecting the entire
design, a perfect unification of taste and sentiments in the matter of furniture
and interior arrangements. Josephine hated profoundly the straight line in apartments,
and the introduction of nonessential architecture into a house. The huge rooms of
old châteaux overwhelmed her and she pitied with utmost sincerity the residents
who are forced to make love in great spaces which echo like cemeteries, in oversized
catafalques, or armchairs fit only for memorial statues of great men. The rooms
of ancient Greece are the size of your hand as are spaces in the ruins of hindi
India. Those exquisite and wise people understood the question. Intimate sentiments
can only be evoked in narrow spaces.