The aftermath is never filled with writing fodder. Honestly, I don’t know why I came here at all. I guess this is the last frontier. I saw the beauty of Jupiter and I wanted to go. It’s creamy milk clouds swirled with dark brown storms and winds making its moon stand out in detailed glory. Lo and behold the splendor of the artist’s rendition of the Great Red Spot. Excuse me while I capitalize whatever I please.
So I sit there, growing fatter by the hour because of some strange sleep hormone and all the posted signs. I hate this torture, this caged bird mentality that my sleep holds me sway. Tomorrow, I shall try again to put one foot in front of the other in a neighborhood safari, but the forest still calls-oh God! The agony is too great and call me ungrateful if you wish. Say that I am spoiled because I have everything that I want! Say it!
So the aftermath of all this death is still not affording me something to talk about. I do feel another one coming on, another premonition of some great legend dying and some injustice waiting in the wings. But it’s just like always, from the time of my birth until now and it will never change. It’s like the calm face of the woman whose husband was gunned down in front of her, it’s life and life to me is this.
I will take two steps to your one but I will never know where I am going.
Do you understand?
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