The Enemy of the Good (eideteker) wrote,
The Enemy of the Good

Just like old times you by the Effingham Meat Distribution, Ltd. Each Effingham is guaranteed to be better than the last, so you're always having the best Effingham you've ever had!

...wood lying cracked and splintered there in the driveway. It's broken off at such a particular angle as to resemble a scrabble piece holder, which to me is marvelous. A most peculiar sum of circumstances, to be certain [fer shur]. And I so carefully pluck a clover which has raindrops beaded on its surface that none of the droplets are upset and I have my own little twirlycopter which I can roll between my fingertips until all the water's centrifuged off, at which point I release it and it spins gently to the ground.

...dreamscape whose surface is a simple plain black and white checkerboard pattern which recedes away to the horizon and infinity. What if it were gingham? And almost as if she heard me, she lies there bleeding, spreading her red ichor defiantly on the pristine surface of this temporary world. And I say to my friend, "Her name's Terry, right?" and he nods. "Women like that are always named Terry or Teri or some permutation," but we're not talking about her; we never were. We're talking about those married women who always flirt with you for no reason we will ever identify. To name it is to rob it of its magic. Can you reduce something to simplest terms without reducing the effect of that thing in itself? As we walk across the checkerboard, we're oblivious to the fact that the black squares are not there at all but rather represent the voids that stand between moments in our everyday life. We don't realize they're bottomless pitfalls but our feet guide us surely and unconsciously to the red squares, now painted by the visceral feeling of something living, the fine line between existence and death, the tripartite Hegelian structure of being, becoming and nothingness. "To live is to die," sang the blood, no longer some unearthly ichor, as it flowed thick and syrupy over the edges of each red tile into the black squares of void, trying endlessly to fill nothing. My friend and I laugh at you trying to understand this, though we don't realize it, as our feet, perhaps more conscious than our minds, carry us onward in safety perhaps beyond what we deserve, but not without end. Suddenly, I think a thought so sharp it pierces the horizon and

...we susurrate gently for a good thirty, forty-five seconds before the breeze dies and we tremble with its memory. We feel your footsteps and can hear a thousand things crawling to or from per their own internal programming. And then they stop and we can only assume you have, likewise. The pattern of warmth your shadow creates changes as you squat above us, paused contemplating something. A rush of air, something quicker than a breeze and lesser as a single stem is plucked from us with almost painful care and then the force is released as you stand with your prize. Your footsteps recede and the life below us returns cautiously and soon after the wind returns, reborn, to play with us again and we are dancing...

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