:: Empty dead babies; searchlights on. ::

:: Wednesday, November 13, 2002 ::

The City. Ancient beachhead. Metro astral network. Traffic corridors pulsate through logic gates of amber stoplights. Wet reflection on weathered tarmac. Binary gray moiré of pointillist mist wisps. Broiling Texas steakhouse; the fire sign. The waiter is American-style-friendly. The clerk’s façade. A terminal looser with nine years in the service gulag. The Cocaine Lady is delivered with studied seething . Oversized western steaks. Symbol of the great grain empire. Centre still raw, bloody to the touch. Orgasmic meat flap feast. “Eat raw meat an you can mate. Your offspring will have more meat flaps.” It’s a fight for survival in the stone downtown.

I hate the traffic in the city. It drives me to great self-satisfied excess, hollering foul curses down on the heads of the poor unfortunates who happen to be in my way. And jesus help the man who cuts me off. I value my car much less than other people value theirs, and this does help to make driving more satisfying,

:: OwenF 8:21 PM [+] ::
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