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by mrs. johnson 07/19/2003, 5:15pm PDT |
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Forty five hundred pounds of fury ride down the escalator. More and more of the children attend the program and some regret their decisions. Many try to fall out of the third story window and blow smoke on the upcoming agendas. The streets are filled with heated skinned meat representatives, now with more population than those being represented. Every man requires three hundreds elected officials. The population dwindles not because of death, but because of laws. Rule number one: number of citizens shall be based on the number of those note involved in the government. Well give it three more years and the state shall have four or five hundred men, one per one thousand acres. Living empty and wild, while the rest of the populace live stacked, like so many playing cards, around a single white building, too small to accommodate anything. Everyone is getting paid; the country now owes money not only to others, but to itself. The national currency is meaningless, the standing army is composed of robotic monsters that were designed to run on corpses, so as to not to stuff the ground anymore. Careful there kid, a bone or two might be sticking up from that sand.
Forty five hundred years past all the worries a cow stands around charred grass, looking hungrily for a green piece. The last creature left alive, mutated slightly to survive the radiation, no longer producing anything that could be called milk, she suddenly hears marching drums. A fife descends to accompany them and the cow looks dumbly on as thirty one dead men march past her. Their eyes long decayed, still beating the drums in perfect sequence. The leading man wears a hat, blowing into his pipe with a phantom breath. Muskets are strapped to their backs and their boots make unpleasant flapping noises. The cow falls over, and begins to die. Starvation kicks in. Vital parts start failing. Now how exactly does it feel to know that your liver has just stopped working? The stomachs shut down, one by one. The eyes close, the heart stops. The brain continues its drive for survival, attempts to reproduce, solve, help, fix, contain. Without oxygen it shuts down. What happens then? Is that it? Is the cow gone? Well no, it’s lying right there, underneath a blurred sky, completely still. What then?
The creatures that might have once lived elsewhere are now expanding. Still unaware of their own mortality, still surprised at each death. Still afraid of each passing moment. Some design flaw, or perhaps a forgotten maturity. Evolutionary fear, designed to help, now only hinders progress. So what? What need is there for progress? Comfort, life extension. The singular reason behind all progress can be discovered in the room of some foolish youth, lying on upturned sheets, listening to smooth drones, with sunshine slowly creeping up to his elbow. The essence of this moment stands entirely on the grooved surface of the future. It will end. Nobody asks the prone boy to deal with this. He knows that thought of the end shall diminish the present, and, not only that, those thoughts shall actually bring about the end. It comes summoned like a faithful dog, but it is strangely untrained, and unaware, just absolute, as a concept or an idea. Three forms: matter, energy and thought.
Dawn of the age. Fighting sporadically in between bouts of love and hate. Physical expression of some kind of symmetry. To ensure the obedience of the surrounding phases, one must accomplish some device. Why do they take the time? Money? Fame? Good will? What kind of twisted asshole would do it for good will? Pure compassion, learned at infancy, somehow imposed. Completely unaware of the upcoming failure of good feeling. There are always plenty to do it, but most are just forms of triumph. That’s the key. To push every child down, yet teach them that they can defeat their oppressors. Millions of achievers, a quicker rise to… what?
the mrs.
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Armament by mrs. johnson 07/19/2003, 5:15pm PDT 
*CRICKET NOISES* NT by Crickets 07/20/2003, 5:35am PDT 
Ok, fuck this and fuck you. NT by mrs. johnson 07/20/2003, 5:20pm PDT 
patience NT by grasshopper 07/21/2003, 12:09am PDT 
I have to come home to THAT every night. NT by mr. johnson 07/21/2003, 1:01am PDT 
Armament is brilliant - A triumph! by Nixon 07/20/2003, 5:45pm PDT 
Fucking for everyone! by mrs. johnson 07/20/2003, 7:04pm PDT 
Stick to prose. NT by No Body 07/20/2003, 10:39pm PDT 
It was in quotes for a reason. by mrs. johnson 07/21/2003, 3:31am PDT 
Comments. by Colonel K 07/21/2003, 4:48am PDT 
Re: Comments. by mrs. johnson 07/21/2003, 4:43pm PDT 
Re: Comments. by Colonel K 07/21/2003, 8:58pm PDT 
Re: Comments. by mrs. johnson 07/21/2003, 9:12pm PDT 
Create characters you find interesting first? NT by Entropy Stew 07/21/2003, 9:46pm PDT 
Funny, that's what I was going to say. NT by Fullofkittens 07/21/2003, 9:57pm PDT 
I do find them all interesting. by mrs. johnson 07/21/2003, 10:06pm PDT 
Re: I do find them all interesting. by Fullofkittens 07/21/2003, 10:23pm PDT 
You're right, I just wish I could do that better, or even want to do that. NT by mrs. johnson 07/22/2003, 2:56am PDT 
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