No A, B, C, or D
“It’s time to spew self-fulfilling foresights, spin rope-knots of lies — let’s twist these little terms until they ring true.” I think while lugging my typewriter off the shelf.
The keys strike ink, letters reeking of eternity. Purposeful prose emerges. There is no time to rest, I must keep going. I press keys to express pressing thoughts, though some slip through my fingers — missing out on not so infinite life.
Upright spines sit snuggling on the shelf. Not the ones from skeletons, just tomes of ghostly memoirs. Within the tomes worms wriggle, tummies full of tight-knit spine soil. The writings melt over time.
OK — too pretentious. No more philosophizing on eternity. Moving on, I’m whipping up some soup. First, the veggies — onion, others, the mirepoix is key. Sizzle those in the pot until the sweet smells overwhelm. Highly sought stuff. Green or yellow lentils next. Yellow is prompt, we’re short on time. Oh shit, I must return to my typewriter.
Soup left simmering on the stove, I struggle to follow these overwhelming rules to the letter. People love letters — the type written to lovers. Fresh news, reports from everywhere.
These written thoughts sent through post people, writings persisting post-people, in the museum?
I pour myself some of the soup, then singe my tongue. Now I’m too full of soup to write, plus my mouth hurts. The worms sing, jeering from the shelf. They insult my wit, my form, my person. Worse yet, they insult my soup. Into the pot they go.
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I wish you positive fortune on the next one without the letter e, Jeremy. There were in 44 in here, they seems quite useful!
