STREAM OF SEMI-CONSCIOUSNESS

Well it's up to a twist of fate and a bottle of cognac as to where the next missle will land. Maybe in your backyard. Maybe in an elephant's ass. I know only that the men of the ocean are coming to crucify goblins and have mad affairs with limbless trees. But headless though they are, their breath still stinks. So it's time to tear the glove apart, I say, and leave it in the snow. The red snow. The worst kind. You can find rivers of it in places where the sun used to shine. I haven't been there for quite a while, myself, but maybe you have read about it. I'm looking forward to unnatural winters that will freeze them all, the boys and girls, except for a few, to keep life spicy and feed the vultures. I'd rather run my world, than run to them. I hate them for what they make me do. I care nothing for their laws and morals, but I fear their punishments. If only I were wicked enough to get away with everything, I would! I'd rob them blind! I'd eat their souls. I'd suck their hearts out through their fingers. I'd club their children to death. I'd give the world back to the trees. I'd send them back to the caves to fear the moon and play with fire. I'm not one of them anymore. I'm just looking for a few good pilgrims who feel the same way. We'll run a secret network and be cozy in our homes, while the lords of this world overlook us, sleeping all night and working all day, and dying of boredom. Meanwhile, we'll smoke ourselves visionary in the atrium, and whisper around the basement table with candles and coffee. We'll steal expensive rugs and jugs and tables with glee. We'll commune with the gods of old, forgotten by the stupid. We'll sneak out at night, without punchcards or paychecks, and dance slavishly, happily, sensually, naked in what's left of the forests. I'm through with this game and all these insects who run the machines.