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11 January 2007 @ 05:18 pm
 
Like pustules on the afflicted, flowers bloom. Delicate supernovae, pheromone factories for butterflies and bees alike. There ain't no such thing as a free lunch.

All you know I know: exploding suns and candlelight glittering on newfallen snow; waitrats delivering pizza and souflés lovingly prepared by a faun; low and high councils; know that the dreams you have tonight are not the prophesies of tomorrow, for there is no tomorrow; how coffee tastes after you've held it in your mouth, cold, a whole minute.

Millitant minutia gathering momentum in the struggle of here and now no one knows why and how changes with every step over the threshold of fear of falling of fatal beauties deputizing the unwary traveller in a game of room and board, groom and broadside catastrophe staring in the face shared by the professor of contraband and the liberator of rare antiquities, den of iniquities, hive of scum and villiany, Hyde of beer and virility, running racing falling upstairs downstairs what words trip up tender fingers smooth over a lock of hair no key fits but the One Key no ring encircles but those blown from expensive French cigarettes burning at both ends this is the way the world ends this is the way the world cocks its head back and lets fly a laugh that levels mountains kisses cheeks brings tears to a little girl's I don't want to be sick against all odds the riders still ride fourth in the deck from which three were drawn and quartered within rooms everchanging corridors lengthening tabs deepening forests of azure owl-infested skies only one for the Prize safe house where safety lies there is no escape from the things you've done begun become because standing before the Door there is no before. Let's see what they have in store some cannabis a cannibal an animal that's much more than a handful nine tails dragon scales all wrapped up in the layered look away before the Dream-that-is-not-a-dream decides it's your turn to do the Speaking, your reason for being, your freeing of the season just in Millitime for the party to start on another page you're all the rage cutting your ankles on chaparral and sage haven't seen you in a dog's pile of bones scattered across the plains rising above; a tower? a flower? more dead by the hour but not in here it's against the rules you know they'll just come back anyway at Milliway's it's all just fun and play all's fair in angst and aftermath only the strong die young only the good survive or so they say for haven't you read the note behind the bar? kirie eleison kirie eleison kirie eleison curious elation feeling no pain pouring syrup over flapjacks in the eye of the storm king waiting in the wings and how many fingers carry feathered rings and who can know self-righteousness sings of light from one star while all the rest are boiling, bursting, melting pats of butter on the bagels of morning risers or hanging from the rafters in training for the battle to come calling for the people to stop fighting for the pen to stop writing the story to end all stories here at the end of all happy hours to give and ours to receive and seconds for those who aren't finished eating souls, drinking blood, finding love in all combinations taken two or three at a time-worn tradition with something borrowed and something blue and something not quite purple not quite divine torn between a lover foresworn and another forewarned that there's no redemption for the unborn, no forgiveness for deeds undone, no death for the weary one, and no return to worlds you've been written out of fashion sense and compassion mean everything when walking in a straight line brings you around the lake and moving in circles takes you back to the center where reading faces is at least as important as drawing conclusions on cocktail napkins soaked in tears for the dying, the dead, and the undead who sits as quietly as you'd expect a messiah not to yet brimming with portent for anyone who can see the ultimate answer and the ultimate question do not compute; just ask the system operator or maybe the morning bartender, but don't ask the Landlord we've already tried and the bar gives dynamite when all he wanted was a good night's sleeping beside the goddess not the princess who's more the fool, the lovers, or the hanged man? who's holding us all in his hand? when do we get to make the final stand up comedy clubs, diamonds, hearts, and spades turning over soil for the new greenhouse given what we know of the history of flowers both magical and brutal words to hear, yet must be said for the story to unfold origami of the mind-fuckall and fudgesicle sundaes in place of the finest wine for the duration of insomniac soliloquys, spinning Anthys, and doubletalking sisters of the Light send one more omnipotent being and this place is gonna blow sky high on the good stuff, man, and that's all that counts the bar tallies in dollars and drachmas and credits and everything is blood money anyway so have a yak juice on me what the hell are you looking at this conversation's meant only for paying customers, those who love them, and the horse they rode in on cloven hooves or just wearing a tutu that holds within everything but the kitchen sink must be full by now in the restaurant that never closes because the author has left the building though he may still be seen in the bathroom mirror after the fog has lifted from the shores in preparation for the social event of the season put on hold just in case the party-goers are too drunk to find their way past the Whomping Willow and open the wrong Door by mistaken indemnity or find that there are worse creatures lurking behind the trees than a few red bunnies for little girls to follow down holes in the fabric of spacetime mended by knitting needles doubling as deadly weapons in the hands of those who merely want to ask the question do you want another refill of your coffee?" Kid looks up at Gil, who he'd spent spent several minutes talking to (how many hours ago?). The restaurant is quieter than it was, so he takes it as a cue to go upstairs and get some sleep.

"No, thanks," he replies, now realizing that he is pretty tired, after all. As the young man walks back toward the kitchen, Kid also notices that he's lost his train of thought. Oh, well, he thinks, this doesn't seem to be going anywhere anyhow. So he gathers up his notebook and heads back to his room(s), not knowing whether he'll have a couch to sleep on tonight, or a bed, or a loft. And not really caring, either.
 
 
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