I was thinking that an ice cream truck who served only meat... Different kinds of meat, and sold no ice cream at all, could do pretty well in some neighborhoods. Boroughs all over the planet. The important gimmick, besides special meats and special treatments would have to be the music though, just like an ice cream truck. And that music would have to be drums. Drum and bass if you stretch it. I'm not saying that every community is ready to make the leap from whimsy to carnage... but, well... You could have fooled me.
This place is the changeling without resolution.
I am overloaded with intense feelings of resentment toward the adults. For half I feel sorry. For the other, I feel a certain cutting edge camaraderie watered down with a sloppy helping of slothful-fleshy-indignant-entitled-going nowhere-one sided "best" friendships. There are certain cards you cannot play when you live as a minority amongst natives. Just saying that thing alone can get you black balled, and the fact that it doesn't make any sense at all, does have meaning. It is meaningful.
So sadly... I must not be the one. I must not be the one to turn my spirit and my gut inside out as if totally impaled, stripped and burnt to all hell for just one lick on a sugary stick, until my years just glue up and leave my mind with a carcass of earnest interests: shoved with some heavy hands wearing disposable gloves into a pit on the edge of the village perimeter like some trash without any kind of god at all. You can't understand unless you have been in a place like here. I have been blasphemous, when all I speak is ... a truth without Earth.
By the ONE, I don't mean Jesus or any other out of body politic. But it might as well be that absurd for the way things just slack and sway. Then the tears come when everyone is full of syrup climbing the walls to Hell and Heaven with eyes alight and hearts ablaze, and then the sun rises and who can we blame now when we can't stand to see each other in the light? I'm not saying anyone should blame themselves, but at least for me... I'm not willing to let my fists fly until I have hated myself with all I possibly can. And all I possibly can is all I possibly will ever have.
What a complete cluster fuck. All of this. This potluck of dressed up best dishes from houses broken and petty who were once brilliant beacons on a long chain of rich and undeserving misery... dragging my wooden spoon into the quagmire to add my secret recipes, with love, and to go untasted. Truly.... Bastards.
I am sure you don't know this one thing I am about to tell you. I believe it so, or certain presences wouldn't be waiting like hungry baby wolves out on the water to come and see for themselves.
3 weeks, to the day... maybe even to the hour... after a body has drowned, it will rise to the surface after traveling the ocean bottom in frigid green remorse, and scan the shoreline with eyes in the back of it's head... for faces still crying.
This place is crawling with moths, on this, the 21st day.