Plastic cups are the new holy chalices
of our generation. We’ve never known
anything else, and the convenience is
worth occasionally closing your fist too
tight and making a mess everywhere.
We ignore the common characters of
the night like the town drunk singing a
song and sitting cross legged in a puddle of
his own vomit. No, the dark is just a medium
we move through to our next session on the
crucifix where the potential of all individual
intent goes to be slowly drained away.
We are feeding the thing with the hairy face
that gives us grim warnings in our nightmares.
The game has been made easy for him, and it is
dripping down through the universe like a dropped
coin in a giant room. It is going to be painful no matter
what. Our only choice is whether or not we want to
be the one who takes the blame in the end, and that
option is not going to be there forever.
They watch the candle melt into the shape of
a narrow mountain, and pretend they are standing
at the peak without the concern of having to
descend ever again. This view is one that
would be good forever but sometimes it’s
nice to see something different.

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