knife
transcribed from typewriten. written early sunday morning.
he was finally clear in his path. he had done all h could and must wait. the vestments lay in a small pile, drowned in kerosene and ready for the torch that would follow. all of this time, he had wished for something to believe in and now, staring into a flame on the brink of a terrible decision, he still had nothing. he dropped the match into the waiting bundle of nothing and sat transfixed as the flames grew. you never really realize how much your life amounts to until you collect it in a small burnable pile and set fire to it. the realization of it all hit him like a book thrown from the clouds. a heavy book. the thought occured to our hero: my wallet is amongst the pile. fuck. he couldn't do it. he couldn't squelch the flame, even for the highest of man's virtues. he was still doomed to watch. the glow lit up his face and the close observer could see a face beneath the obvious one. the flame melted the outer, revealing an inner being of absolute. anarchy. red. blood. silence. hatred?
"what are you doing here?? get out before..."
"correction: i am simply burning a large pile of everything i've ever known, please, let me be"
"GET THE FUCK OFF M... wait, are you a fucking priest? what are you doing here?"
"god guided my feet to this place and now, he has planted them here"
"god. hmph."
"of course. god. i am a priest."
"i should go back, the others are waiting"
"they already left."
"if you are a priest, you should help me fin..."
"i am a priest"
"what?"
"priest. me. huh?"
"oh right. listen man, i didn't know they were going to do it. the bac..."
"don't worry. i am no longer a priest, see the pile?"
"what?"
the man drew a knife, a small curved thing, worthless against a man of god. the knife entered his abdomen. the pain was incredible. the blood worse. all he saw were orange lights and a cloud hanging with uncertain but certainly ill intentions above a neighborhood 711. he could feel the pain taking over his thoughts. until he was completely elevated to a state of perfect pain. the moment before death. the cloud still hung and became larger, an ochre cloud of indeterminate size and shape. it spiraled into manifesations of what a large ochre cloud should be and than disappeared. but not altogether. it disappeared into another lunatic manifestation of a cloud. worse yet simpler than the once previous cloud. it was all becoming worse. the last moments of your life spent contemplating a fucking puff of smoke. no, definatly a cloud. there was no trancendence, except he seemed to know everything about this ochre entity now swooping over the 711. 8.33. the number. cloud. nothing. black. he lost all hope of returning to normal thought. the cloud was all he was now and all that he could remain. he loved it.
he was finally clear in his path. he had done all h could and must wait. the vestments lay in a small pile, drowned in kerosene and ready for the torch that would follow. all of this time, he had wished for something to believe in and now, staring into a flame on the brink of a terrible decision, he still had nothing. he dropped the match into the waiting bundle of nothing and sat transfixed as the flames grew. you never really realize how much your life amounts to until you collect it in a small burnable pile and set fire to it. the realization of it all hit him like a book thrown from the clouds. a heavy book. the thought occured to our hero: my wallet is amongst the pile. fuck. he couldn't do it. he couldn't squelch the flame, even for the highest of man's virtues. he was still doomed to watch. the glow lit up his face and the close observer could see a face beneath the obvious one. the flame melted the outer, revealing an inner being of absolute. anarchy. red. blood. silence. hatred?
"what are you doing here?? get out before..."
"correction: i am simply burning a large pile of everything i've ever known, please, let me be"
"GET THE FUCK OFF M... wait, are you a fucking priest? what are you doing here?"
"god guided my feet to this place and now, he has planted them here"
"god. hmph."
"of course. god. i am a priest."
"i should go back, the others are waiting"
"they already left."
"if you are a priest, you should help me fin..."
"i am a priest"
"what?"
"priest. me. huh?"
"oh right. listen man, i didn't know they were going to do it. the bac..."
"don't worry. i am no longer a priest, see the pile?"
"what?"
the man drew a knife, a small curved thing, worthless against a man of god. the knife entered his abdomen. the pain was incredible. the blood worse. all he saw were orange lights and a cloud hanging with uncertain but certainly ill intentions above a neighborhood 711. he could feel the pain taking over his thoughts. until he was completely elevated to a state of perfect pain. the moment before death. the cloud still hung and became larger, an ochre cloud of indeterminate size and shape. it spiraled into manifesations of what a large ochre cloud should be and than disappeared. but not altogether. it disappeared into another lunatic manifestation of a cloud. worse yet simpler than the once previous cloud. it was all becoming worse. the last moments of your life spent contemplating a fucking puff of smoke. no, definatly a cloud. there was no trancendence, except he seemed to know everything about this ochre entity now swooping over the 711. 8.33. the number. cloud. nothing. black. he lost all hope of returning to normal thought. the cloud was all he was now and all that he could remain. he loved it.
posted by apes everywhere at 1:47 PM
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