Mortality breeds urgency.

November 15, 2008 at 8:44 pm | Posted in music, writing | 6 Comments

subtitle – getting your hands dirty
subdrop – The Sweeney Todd Riff.
In the event of, eventually, the break glass now button began to haunt him. It was the only colour in an otherwise totally bland office, a flash of red, in the event of emergency,

He looked back at the computer. Another unhappy customer. What the fuck do I care, so you lost some of the money you stole in the first place. He constantly tries to hide the arrogance behind an unshaven shuffling gate, now is not the time, the old man had said.

It was the madness of permanent loneliness, he knew. He had been warned by Odetta, there is no peace without justice for the likes of you, Squires. You’re just another wanna-be Sisyphus. Lay off the Greeks, one of his accidental enemies had said. Where have we come to now, Antigone, where jewellers trade more than the glint in the corner of the eye, the promise.

Betting they’ld lose but not without fair warning, mate, look, it’s cyclical, bubbles burst, the economy’ll come back. Maybe you should have listened to me and not borrowed so much and then used the equity to borrow more, you idiot. In case of emergency only, it haunts him. In his dreams flashes of red like fingernails carving the number 27 into his back. “What am I expected to do”, he types into the computer and someone else who also has a problem asks him for help and all he can think is there must be some place beyond a mere babble and goes back to edit in linebreaks, people say play nice, the ones afraid to slice, slice, slice,


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  1. any-way-you-slice-it-bread – thankyou gingatao
    Thankyou, Tipota

  2. hm, from Odetta to Odets…”Life shouldn’t be printed on dollar bills…”

    if only truth, beauty, and integrity yielded the kinds of returns Warren Buffett often sees on his monthly statements, you, sir, would be, at the very least, a quintillionaire…
    Quintillionaire, cool, thanks, Chico.

  3. The impersonal angst of the capitalist system..

    Sisyphus, I cn remember quite what he did. Didn’t he feed his son to to the Gods?
    No, he was the poor bastard who spent eternity pushing a rock up a hill only to have it roll down again, Crushed.

  4. longing to be crushed. the most crushed of kings, hmm.

    i love this post Paul; it has so many dimensions

  5. Well, so did he push the button?

  6. …very nicely done…

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