An unclever rationale

The economy is flaccid and limp, like a deflated birthday balloon. The party has long since been deserted and the mice scramble for the crumbs left by the oily faced children. Squalling brats, more pig than human, the corners of their mouths smeared with dark icing, rolls of fat sliding underneath their torpid skin. Their dark bowl cut hair plastered greasily to their skulls, repugnant to behold.

The swirling abyss threatens to engulf the Writer, a damning eternity is only waiting for the next tiny figure to fall flailing towards it. Outlined by the hellish fusion core, this despair swirls in a multispoked pattern, white on blue, blue on black. There is no blessing of oblivion waiting, but a thousand years of torment, each molecule pulled away from the core in a series of small sections, gravity takes hold of its own and the event horizon seals the figures' fate. Small toenails, fingers, bits of hair, they are all wrenched off with inexorable force, then vital organs, fluids and viscera fly screaming towards the center.

Is there an escape from this doldrum of a climax? Extinguished before it had a chance to flame, like a sputtering match. The intellect is folding in onto itself rapidly, vocabulary declines and creativity pales into monotony. Where is there an escape? There must be a path, a yellow gray gravel path that leads to a fearless land, where a man can stand tall or a woman can revel guiltlessly. The trap was laid, set, and triggered. Is there any choice but to wait for the huntsman's axe? Perhaps to gnaw at your own foot, tearing muscle and tendon, vein and bone. Free, but at a cost? Are we lizards, cephalapods, to whom any damage is but psychic and temporary? Is it permanent and crippling, even carrying over to the next generation like some bastardized Linnean parody of life?

The writer sincerely hopes.