The World, The Simulacrum, and The Long-Hoped For Bullet
by the Insignificant Artisan
I long for the bullet.
I need to be cleansed.
The crime of my mind and the foulness of my hands have etched, scarred me. Scar me enough for rats, rodents. Dread rodents, get away! Away from me so I can have my gin, my rummy-tummy, drummy, bottle of artificial-ultrasocial gin.
And these hands, are vegetable. So vegetable like lamentable clover in a drink of bitter water. A drink which I drink up, ah, a sip. A sip on a seat, under a tree.
The world, simulacrum, and the long-hoped for bullet.
The background before the concept, then the narrative as implementation, and finally, the resolution. Thought only has worth if it is applicable and known in the social plane. What stains, is not gold. He who thinks, is a fraud.
The context of my words without prior knowledge are simply missing. It’s lost to the winds of the solitary crowd. The crowd of crowns. Such eyeful crowns. The crown wearing masses, ushered by the hands of power, finds themselves loosing context in an assembly. And then, a chant echoes and cannons. The chant of true faith and devotion, it was the chant of all chants. It was the chant of The One. It was the chant of the all-and-ever seeing. It was the chant of two syllables. In each, a single letter. The letter was B.
To B or not B.
No. ’tis for B, for B.B.!
It is for victory!
And it is for such, that I hope for the bullet. May it cleanse me from misery.