Remote controlled life
In a time capsule
No room at the inn
If the “good” can’t deal with your story, how good are they?
They scoff at you when you could garote them but they create nothing, their idiocy of the righteous is anything but/yet disaffected unemployed gangs of angry young mobs – with phones and assault rifles-radios and bullets. Bread and wine.
Blood on the streets in the town of Chicago…
And this is how the world got so jumpy.
His mother would read him horror stories then turn out the light. To show him life was like that. Tomorrow’s reverie already spent. To prepare him for what he would have to live through and explain to save others quickly no hesitation. The shaman stopped by on his way upstate. Melody stared out the window of her room on the hospital-not-called-a-hospital grounds. She was seeing and saying things again. Now she’d be bipolar, put on Prozac, go to yoga. By turn, in 1973, she would die in custody.