Spring Cleaning in the Labyrinth of the Continuum

The bell rings, but when you open the door, there is no one outside. Only the faint smell of gasoline, and a dozen roses. Not so much as a councilman to give them context. To allow us to say to the heavens: What a shame! Or prance about in our pajamas with all the pre-determined abandon of a troop of maenads. One that meets every other month to discuss investments. How wax figures ought to look like someone in particular, rather than just blend in with their surroundings, like fig trees. Or those cement mixers people offer top dollar for when they hear there is one available on the black market. And they wash it out with scent of parsley. They set it next to the bookshelf, for those who might otherwise miss the symbolism. Suppose your neighbor took out an insurance policy at that point anyway. With the same outfit that refused to fix your basement. Would he know that his actions are not determined after the fact, but settled on ahead of time, by committee? Would he even recognize his own picture in the file they keep there like a Caravaggio? Which means in a back room, out of sight. Otherwise, temptation multiplies until the children in the neighborhood all know that something is amiss. They just don’t know what to call it. How to give shape to their foreboding without first abandoning their cap guns and their kewpie dolls. Throwing them down the well with mock solemnity. And a real-life cat.

Charles Freeland | Mudlark No. 35
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