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Miracle Sin (a tentative title to a story of mine)

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Sinister listener's picture Sinister listener
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Apocalypse is slow, a huge explosion so slowed down you barely see the changes until they are fainting into the next popcorn shape of a stormy cloud.

It is time itself, evolving decay, an appearance of endless growing entropy that abruptly ceases into not-nothing, that is nothing anyways. The end of believed desperately craved endurance. Death.

Stumbling accidents and luck, we age to die into forever oblivion. Life´s pointless but so is death, hence we keep it up.
Nobody knows anything.

Picture me naked in the night desert with a gun and a Rolex, telling the universe, God, an invisible government and whatever else isn't there, but I wish to be witnessing, that I've got about five minutes to live and that´s how long it´s got to show mercy.

Picture me going from church to church to screw the most lubricious women in a better rate than any whorehouse.

Picture me listening for hours with my left ear, or right ear, because the other would be sorrow and swollen, out of the damp decaying concrete wall that separates me from an unknown, yet forever horny, neighbor.

Picture me at the window with binoculars and a telescope to catch the sexual depravities of the normal.
Or at the roof, looking down at the nymphomaniac blond milf next building.
I don´t know which church she goes to, for I would attend.
I pray she isn't an atheist. Blasphemy is alright if there´s love.

I watch the endless procession of plugs and fillers TV waiting for one piece of news they haven´t got yet. I´m ahead of the curve.
The plugs and fillers are really like chickens and eggs or day and night. One is there to feed the other and both are pretty much the same.

I muse about the building flying like Dorothy´s house instead of vaporising so I could take a leak while snooping the blond and catching the news. But the beer would be ruined. The very first and last victims of idiots are invariably themselves.

It´s not that I am dying for it, no pun intended, but when a blast that obliterates the largest city in the world is imminent it´s harder and harder to keep one´s focus. A shimmering blast wave would-be déjàvu. All the people nothing.

The Rolex informs that , church time, it´s close. I don´t know when the detonation happens. Yet anyways. Only the bank knows the time. In the bank we trust. Nature works in mysterious ways. Not genocide, extinction.

I tried to be nice. Don´t kill, peel nice. This redundant mass hysteria ordeal, this bent revelry, isn't my doing. Alone, anyways.
Rated R for violence, Operation Dark Lightning bedevils.
One line reads left to right, next right to left, gone awry. Chaos. Controlled demolition.
What a redundancy.

As long as the waters shake and the boat doesn't stand still everyone goes off board. My enemy is stability. Or used to.
Exactly` often means the opposite.

I´m a reviled deviant.

Inside the lowest pavement of my own Winchester Mystery House, I wait for the inevitable to be stopped, hopping that it inevitably will.

This Christmas I forgive yourself for being completely unforgiving. On TV I see a NOW I HAVE A MACHINEGUN shirt. Santa better hurry or the mushroom will toast the future´s future this year.

Another glance at the watch. Licensed Reality.

The American Cryonics Society is managed by a seven person Board of Governors. They´ll need replacements.

Schizophrenia is a lucrative conspiracy of solipsists´ imaginary friends. You may quote me.

How many philosophers does it take to change a light bulb?
We are still working on that.

What did a burned out light bulb say to another? Look at the bright side.

Television wisdom continues.

The bright side of a burned out light bulb is recycling.

I zap through the channels waiting for the lethal doses of radiation to zap through me. The ones beyond the Wi-fi towering pollution that is.

I´m not a schizophrenic, I´m a stand up ´lone comedian. I sought help. The project. But let´s not get a head of ourselves. Not yet anyways.