I admit I may have had one glass too many, but used paper face masks littered the ground. How’s that allowed? Even the crows on the wire must have wondered what the fuck. A series of incidents doesn’t necessarily add up to a plot.
We are the rifles our ancestors didn’t have. At the Battle of Marengo, Napoleon’s soldiers urinated on muskets that had become too hot to handle from constant firing. The bold red patches on the shoulders of uniforms alluded to Christ’s wounds.
That country no longer exists. Yet some who came from faraway to be there refuse to leave. They burn flags in protest, chant revolutionary slogans, throw rocks and bottles. Police in riot gear struggle in vain to restore order. And why shouldn’t they? Each night the moon just grows fatter.
A lot that happened just sort of happened. I probably shouldn’t compare myself, but Roal Dahl also had eighteen teeth pulled. He kept a caged bat as a pet, feeding it a diet of milk and bread, a crime gorgeously lit by big arched windows.
When the wind ripples the leaves, the leaves speak in the doomy voice of prophecy. It’s like one of those maps on the wall with an arrow saying, “You are here.”