Friday, February 10, 2006
Everybody can smell blood now. Everybody is rushing to get a piece of the Falling Cow, as we say in Syria. Good old, very old, Syria – our long Infested Womb.
Is it any wonder then that the Cleric and the Charlatan should be forming a pact? But then, politics make strange fuck-fellows and all that.
So be it. I would have been surprised had things turned out any different. The scenario in my head needs not be revised. Things are going as planned by some collective universal madness that we like to misrepresent, if not disparage, by calling it fate.
Meanwhile, our Ambassador of the Dead is indignant with the continuous barrage of accusations from the Living Administration, that ever unfathomable entity to whom he has been delegated in search of leniency and some saving grace.
Still, our Body-Snatchers’ days are numbered, their Ambassador’s zeal and their Victims’ resignation notwithstanding.
And the storm that is brewing will burn us all, bystanders included. For the world has grown too small for anybody to remain untouchable, or innocent.
Indeed, we are all culprits in the unfolding madness now, and this our
“hand will rather
The multitudinous seas in incarnadine,
Making the green one red.”
Macbeth - Act 2. Scene II