Language

2014-03-14

Cry for the cameras again but shoot for a different register; your Bs are flat, your D-sharps are pathetic and different demographics respond to suffering in different keys. The armed focus-testers said so in a manner that was quite insistent, you’d need to convince them and me otherwise before any checks got writ.

So go ahead, we’ve got all day, and talk quickly. I’m listening to how I’d imagine what you’re saying would sound if I were the one phrasing it. Talk quickly.

There’s a theme? Elsewhere. Victory is written by the historians. Auschwitz has a cafe now. It sells Red Bull but not Sugar-Free Red Bull. The patrons take a lot of selfies and I sit next to the kids’ shoes grading their facial expressions against a photocopied sincerity curve that I drew-up specifically for the purpose. Grieving is grieving, even in your D-sharp.

Now who’s the scribbler? And who’s the scriblee? They’ll “split the next infinitive over my brows” if I correctly recall just oh one more time. A threat, presumably a promise.

And introducing what? The serial devastator on the caged pursuit of interrogation. The beautiful masterpiece of a species that deserves every-god-dammed-thing it craves, besides, and in not-so-few-a words.

So how’s “Abby’s left me and my friend is dead.” for idle pub talk? “Are you sitting down?” Not really but I’m psyched up for a spot of devastating news. Hit me.

Alas. If autocorrevt doesn’t catch it then it stays. If hell doesn’t burn then it’s only for the lack of oxygen. If the thread-of-thought falls to ‘41s Barbarossa then bury me at Pavlov’s house and dig in for the winter, men. It’s going to be a long one.