| Rimbaud �I is another,� he cried from the stage with such alacrity that it was half-believable � but you knew it was an act � this recalcitrant gamepiece, fraught with despair and languishing in mortal envy, fought His way out of Providence and caught half a breath of suspicion on the wind � he turned � the tornados threw everything they had, but he was too quick � you know you should never chance fate with a nihilist � �I is another,� he proclaimed, though lacking conviction � this is not the ending the narrator had in mind, one must think of how such words form the rhachis of this delicate, autumn-dried maple leaf, browning as it will in a sea of furious delusion, falling further and further into grief-stricken disconsolance, inconsolable, the prospects for such a return to the root of the problem a forlorn mess come now, you�ve seen worse than this � it�s so much pettiness, on a cosmic scale � come share your grief and forge the new high ground of discordant spirituality how half-formed are the prophesies that brought us this far? How might one know that sidestepping from one disaster to another might bring about the end of this state of mind? such disconsolate aggressions � and indiscretions � of a � wait � disconsolate�yes disconsolate, this rueful scorn of all things nameless, lost in their own disconsolance. This word, I pray, be the end of such circumstances �The charity of disconsolance��yes � yes, that will make a fitting epitaph. (c) 2002 troubled phantom publishing onward backward |
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