[It's blasé these days. This. That. And the other thing.

I bore myself. (And that's saying something, because these days even dark alleys give me a semi.) I put my painting up and stare (for days; for years), and: nothing. I used to exist out of spite. Now I exist despite it.


The theater has an echo. To my left, the people's politicos, their retinue of shameless sycophants surround, a litany of pandering slander lapped up by the starving sect of media lite-brights to my right. But I haven't even made it past the gallery, and as I descend into the alleys below (pews at my sides, Bible pages torn from their spines and rearranged into manila file folders), the vision crystallizes. It is Heaven, no? The afterlife? A post-limbo fête of piety and pistachioed doldrums, a choir of spinning angles singing the praises of the Holy Father's court. But I must live, and I am pulled back toward Earth, which looks more or less the same.]
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