Burial of an era... an ode to a friend

This discussion is not political. This discussion is not funny. This discussion will involve no cut-up dramatics. This discussion deals only with the cycle of life and the scars that it leaves on the living. Sorry for dirty melancholy mouth that I have. Nobody needs that this time of year. Nonetheless it is brought upon us. The chill of winter has delivered what it delivers best.

With that delivery, many, many happy memories are archived... she was a regal and noble alpha until the end. Their exists rarely a thing that is more soothing to the soul than unconditional companionship.


It's over now. She's gone. She only left my side once; her loyalty only waning at the moment of her last breath. Gem, loved until she had no more life left. Gem, loved by many. Gem, rest in peace. The cold February wind cuts deep. All things must pass.

Then a plan took on a shape similar to Alberta's

"Sign up now for a free promotional t-shirt and refreshing tropical social mixer," the sign read.

If not for his meddling grandmother and overtly homosexual uncle he just may have picked up that sticky looking pen.

Bring home three girls and laugh at them with vodka eyes. That's what his next mental step would always be, forever, and he knew it. It's the only thing he really knew; the only thing that was literal to him.

He put on his Caught Somewhere in Time album and went to sleep, right there on the cold, dead rocks. He stared at the silhouette of pier for a brief moment and wondered what his next step should be. This led to a blind chase of some unknown dream which he quickly laid to rest. He finished his last morsel of crumb cake and continued on with his open-ended thought pattern.

Lem Cloward clopped down behind him with his soul-hardened shoes. He pulled out two symbolic gestures and they both understood. The Bannachio Roads and the Alberta. Put them together and you've achieved full mental aptitude and the final sense of sustainability. The ringing in the ears is called Tinitus, and it is relieved after only a short few moments. They climbed into the Suburban, the three girls in the far back, and headed to Lem's cavern. They convinced a fourth woman to drink heavy amounts of vodka proactively and they all laughed at her, knowing that theirs was a position of authority.

He would have now found the courage to pick up the pen and sign up for the t-shirt and mixer, something some never will get the chance do.

The high priest confiscated your identity.

Though not rare, the confiscation of personal identity is often completely hidden under the thick, greasy, skin of society's top shelf. Orville Redenbacher, Don Johnson, and the Everly Brothers have all had it happen to them, not to drop iconic names or anything. They hung out at the VFW lounge far too long if you catch my drift. The high priest got to them, boy.

Just like your eventual demise, with time as the only factor working on your side. Any high priest has power, but if we really look hard, this high priest has at the least, top level abilities. He hangs out by the barrier. The reality barrier that is, that lies somewhere beneath a layer of fat and a strong shield of dynamic blood vessels. Don't cross it or fuck with it and you'll be fine. It looks to be appealing, the flowing life blood, the pulsating, wholesome fat layer, but don't be so stupid as to poke at it or even gently touch it to sense its texture. You'll be knee deep in the shit the next thing you know, with not one fucking alternative route out. Not one route out.