A Fuck of Shit and Piss
It is a rainy Tuesday morning. A morning of the rains, this Tuesday is. It is Tuesday, and it is raining. It is also in the morning. It has been raining for 18 years, and I am 18 years old. Apparently, there was once something called ‘the sun’, which would blast the planet with its radiation for somewhere between 8 and 20 hours a day, depending on the time of year. Now, it is obscured by usufructuary clouds, which galvanise loquaciously the arteries of the supine Firmament, that terrible petroleum devil which we love so dearly. O’, how I long for that tragic air! The clock strikes nine, signalling campanically with sporadic integuments that the time has come for me to purchase a book. On avian heels I stalk these diluvial streets, my mind aflutter with visions of Morpheus: the skies graciously parting to reveal those pages, long which I have sought, that might hide within them some phantasm, some memory, some Oriental wagon of verity and dendricity, a Fifth Humour t...