Yesterday, I loved him as never before. I wondered why it was that I had never taken it upon myself to walk down the street in the sordid, misting fog that crawled in like sentient tampons, vampires looking for a place to leave their drained remains. I wanted to pack a picnic basket for the journey. You asked for bread and you got loaves; you asked for wine and you got callow vineyards, serving you the basest of alcoholic pleasures in a broad-based glass topped with purple paper umbrellas. "Where is this going?" I asked. "Where exactly do the hollows go?" But who minds. Not me; well, perhaps, I do mind; perhaps I don't think this is worth my time. But who am I to say where this is likely to lead in the fullness of time? This is a sort of construction, destruction, symbolism, religion; we may have lost the plot; where were we, before the storm?

Exquisite Corpse V by abc.f

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