dantehowles
Temperance. Never really like that card. I don't recall which number it is. Higher than The Fool and lower than The World that's for sure! Worst of the Major Arcana without "the" in the name. Judgement judges it to be incredibly shitty.
Right out my neck, he took a bite. I was bleeding profusely and it seemed there was little hope left for me. Seemed? Little? There was no hope left for me. None whatever. His teeth were stuck in my neck! I couldn't survive a bite like that. All's well, 'cause I didn't.
Bam Bam Bam.
That goddamned hammering won't stop, will it?
Bam Bam Bam.
The guy who lives upstairs is an artist, apparently.
Bam Bam Bam.
He's not a very good one.
Bam Bam Bam.
Thinks nailing pieces of wood together is art.
Bam Bam Bam.
This was no practical in any sense of the word. But honestly, it was cool. There was nothing like a pair of gloves that's inside was interwoven with thousands of tiny magnets. Thousands of them! The electromagnetic field was powerful enough that I could wipe a computer just by touching it! That's actually what happened too. I'm still sore about that.
The monorail sped on the rail like an elongated blur. I was thankful for it's speed. What I had on me needed to get into the hands of someone very important very quickly. Was this top priority? Probably, least as far as the Cult of Dawn was concerned.
"This is way too confusing for me." I say as I stare at the diagram before me. "Are those labels? I think they're labels but I'm not sure."
"Look," my friend begins, "it's not that hard to understand. The flux capacator--"
"That doesn't exist you buffoon. That's only a piece of fictional hardware."
I've got nothing. The word bounces around in my mind, yes, ravaging the place, but making no meaningful connections whatsoever. Maybe there's something in there about the futility of affection. That'd make a great cynical article.
We all looked at the mish mash that was my art project. Goddamn it was awful. Nothing about showed any care to medium, nor symbolism, nor composition. It was nothing short of awful, but one of my friends claimed to have understood it perfectly. It was a revealing of my inner-self, he had said.
I dislike the stuff sitting on the table. Apple juice, a liquid that looks amazingly similar to my piss. Beyond the visual unpleasantness, the taste is putrid. I ignore it in favour of glass of water.
The railroad was a dismal one. The track was bent and rusted in more places than I cared to count. Still, as disgusting as it was to look at for me, we still met here every Saturday. I don't know why Stan felt it fitting for us. We weren't all like he was, battered from the hardships of life. He seemed to think it represented all of us. I never really understood that.