The empty flesh

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Oh well. You oughta exit now, Madam. A good slap in the face, swallow your pharynx paste, push your stomach powder-milk down your moisty tube, bottoms up! Get your yellow ass to work. Oh and don’t forget to apply your UV protection screen, it’s going to be another face melter today, I can feel it.

What period is it again? Autumn perhaps? I thought it could be September but it’s quit hard to determine. A yellowish light, not that bright anymore, fewer crimson rays it would seem. A timid purple pallor on the rise? Any clue that the machine is still turning would be appreciated, an indication that our manufactured and seemingly everlasting geosphere’s core bolts are still banging and smacking somewhere from time to time. The light barely passes through the titanium arcs covering the dome anyway, just enough to let us know that yes, we still have a sun.

I could ask someone in the street the exact date, but most people don’t care much about calendars anymore. At best, I would be rewarded with a couple of unassured, embarrassed round-eyed stares. Could that be shame? The younger ones don’t know a thing about these matters of dates and years. And for the best it is! Useless information has all but been allowed to endure long enough throughout known history. Blame that on crass sentimentalism or vain, deep-rooted habits, but who would know? This warm and cozy feeling of strength through stability, self-fed to the point of bloating while we mused and mulled in front of the proverbial fireplace. Or should I say, the incinerator.

At least, that’s what I think might have been pretty common, in these ancient eras whose memories we deliberately robbed ourselves of.

My craze, my whim, has always been the void. That timeless absence of all. Nowadays no one thinks of the void. But much like the nano-tech nostalgic or ancient paper books adept, one can sometimes be found by some resourceful and resilient firefly. All it needs to do is dig you out of your empty hole and fire up your engines again, somehow…

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