The Old Fool sits on his comfy chair staring fixedly at the blue painted wall…the only wall in the house devoid of immodest art…with his eyes wide open, attired in just a manmade coal-black dressing gown that trails all the way down to his frozen feet. During his spell without an hourglass, wearing the dressing gown every single dull day he has concluded that it has a certain cheap panache. He hasn’t spoken a single word since waking up non compos mentis on the last day the sun shined and that was a while ago. Nevertheless, in his exclusive madness he still manages to think…this and that; that and this.
Late afternoon, the bliss of winter’s darkness close at hand. Soon the robotic shadows will make haste eastward bound following the couldn’t-care-less sun. Those that linger, the scarlet ones, hang around street corners and lampposts pleading to the fancy-man moon for more clientele. The Old Fool wonders if the girlie shadows will ever learn. Probably not, his verdict.
He feels thankful that the ‘Blue Wall’ will never grasp the fact that the curse of time is truly intimidating. Blue Wall cannot comprehend the concept of time, the lucky bastard. If ‘it’ did ‘it’ would know that time is a sadistic gift from mankind to self. “Well Person Blue Wall, were it not for human consciousness and chronicled memories, piss-useless time would never exist,” the first words The Old Fool had spoken since the old king died.
Later, when the darkness had blocked out Blue Wall to the extent that ‘it’ manufactured ‘its’ very own stand-up bed, The Old Fool pondered upon the subject of lines on the surface of Mother Earth’s maps…the sort of comical lines that define warmongering nations and variations of male-only debatable gods of numerous names. On top of that ‘how so’ believers believing in the one who they’ve never seen let alone been spoken to? Eerie, the feeble ways of smart-arse humankind.
Blind, the inane eyes of unequivocal lifeless winter’s freezing nights. No need of dazzling lamps when The Old Fool doesn’t give a damn. He knows all too well exactly where his monumental array of minuscule pills live; pills that get swallowed along with a half decent bucket of Burgundy. The Old Fool is envious of the uninvolved Blue Wall…vertical structures have that effect.
The quack tells me my irksome polar opposite illnesses at battle with each other can’t get better and apparently I can’t get worse. I don’t know if that’s good or bad…time will tell. With that in mind I may as well do the one thing I’ve been missing, namely WP and its bunch of talented artists of all genres. I hope you all are well and delightfully insane.
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