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twentieth, nov late last night in your ancestor's ancient manor stacked with many floors, we occupied a room so high up that only the shackles on the roof protected us from the unpleasantly chilly exosphere. empty except for the dead dust and the bed we occupied. you read from a golden book of scary stories and i rested my head on your shoulder. i wondered out quiet, "you think this house has ghosts?" i looked to the window, and who should slowly surface out of the layers and layers of night? two quite distant relatives of yours. quite quite distant, i would say, because they were so dead, they were human-shaped beautiful blue smoke. in the right pane, a woman in a feathered hat and a tightly buttoned blouse. in the left, a man in an old-fashioned suit. you didn't notice, but the man began telling me about shooting out his baby's eye with the pistol he was spinning around one of his phantasmic fingers, which really doesn't make any sense at all. so basically you're decended from a pretty bad father figure. i flipped him off, but i think he died such a long time ago that he missed the invention of the middle fucking finger, dude. can you even imagine? |