I was subject to ‘yeah’ awhile for willing sounds stray, a bit too far left, or maybe right, of Standard Operating Music Arrangement (SOMA), than even the liberal interpreter of SOMA can silently suffer. She must sing.
Idiots wanted, the proverbial want-ads read, Sons of suffering to be put through worse. Qualified applicants assume Marketable position. Bite. Hard. Bite that bullet hard son bite hard….
“Can’t you see that? Can’t you open your eyes for one goddamned minute and just see that? Or at least see something if not ‘that’ specifically.”
She said this several times throughout the evening, but I couldn’t make out exactly what ‘that’ was, much less anything else. Or something else, as she apparently preferred.
Years of this can naturally alter, displace or even obliterate – zap gone poof oblivion – one’s ability to feel.
Such years, as they accumulate, break character, breed cowardice of the sort found in ‘journalists’ who win tear-jerk awards for juiced-jock achievement-stories and at the awards ceremonies fawn over drunken vampires experimenting with money, you know, those ‘sons of promise’ with cash for kindling to burn some unfortunate – in every sense – victim…say, some dumb-ass hack ‘news’ reporter…
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