Halls of marble

. . . . . . . I too am disappointed and angered by the changes made to Star Wars and to the DC comics. But I was never a big fan of moralizing to begin with. It never made sense to me that a man could have superhero powers and not use them for his own benefit. Indeed, it seems FOREORDAINED that a man would “cheat” a little. If you could fuck every sweet waiting14-year-old virgin hottie, with or without her social circle’s knowledge, wouldn’t you?

. . . . . . . *tossing back my hair* This world is unfair to those who deserve its bounty the most. The JUSTICE is in THOSE WHO ARE PERFECT walking down HALLS OF MARBLE.

“Life is made up of marble and mud.” — Nathaniel Hawthorne

. . . . . . . A grown-up ceases to believe in childish toys of the mind like Batman or the “First Order.” These are puerile playthings that do not do justice to the full black-and-grayscale ranges of the universe. Some things just shade into darkness naturally.

. . . . . . . Where are the halls of marble in this world? We draw up blueprints of fake acrylic panels made to look like marble. Everything is ersatz. Even pleasure, coming inside a woman’s vagina, is ersatz. Her fake groans and moans, her copying of her actions from glimpses of chintzy porn videos. Her desperate attempts to hold onto you when you just want to scurry away and grab a slice of pizza.

. . . . . . . When you are the dream-lover, then whose dream are you fulfilling?

. . . . . . . When you live in a tight box of nightmare proportions, how can you stretch out your legs and relax and think?

. . . . . . . We want to be Ludwig II, builder of luxe palaces, instead we are Mario the Video Game Plumber, ever seeking after a useless grabbag of pixels called a Princess. Shave off your mustache, Mario, and abandon that video game. Find other hobbies to divert yourself. Endless iterations is the lot of the living, not the immortally pixellated like you are. Child after child after generation after generation, these things come to the private-parts-endowed.

. . . . . . . *sighs, putting chin on hand* Nobody can save us. We can only save ourselves. The Cathedral keeps a tight moral rein on the world. In Saudi Arabia just a year or three ago, chicks were granted the right to drive motor vehicles. In Afghanistan, the Taliban will be squeezed financially until the young pussy gets the right to read the same books as the boys.

. . . . . . . Vladimir Putin, George W. Bush did not look into your eyes and see your “soul.” He looked in a reflecting mirror and saw a buffoon. He equated this with a Russian clown. I’d rather be a Texas rancher painting my last days away than an autocrat pushing the West to the brink of clandestine warfare over a nothing country on the fringes of the European Union. Pity the Holodomor dead. Pity the walking dead who will be turned into mincemeat if Russia steps across that line. Putin doesn’t care. Putin only wants to be a Great Russian. What an illusion. And what should Catxman be? A great Canadian? What would that entail? A peacekeeper in a pink brassiere?

. . . . . . . Even in my books, I have to go to an American publisher to sell. Same as music. Drake and The Weeknd and Justin Bieber all have deals with American outfits. They don’t deal through Canadian intermediaries. Ah, but life sucks. I want my hall of white clean marble. I don’t believe in illusory substitutes. There is no instant coffee for my caffeine jonesing.

. . . . . . . The hall of marble must exist in some dimension, with some certainty. There must be steps going up at one end of it. A single perfect piano with elephant-ivory keys, there to be played. The music of the spheres. And there we go to die.

(c) 2022 Q1 Septablacorchid Corporation.

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