dedalus Posted January 9, 2011 Share Posted January 9, 2011 (edited) Hang on, Mrs Poole, and you'll be all right, as the building crashes down in showers of dust around you and you are, like, somewhere in there, and I have to say I never liked you much Mrs Poole, for you were a right screechy bitch, when me fambly and me came down for the holidays. Oh, so you're dead now. They'll be giving you the Albert Medal posthumously. So very sad. HA! But I want to be sure you are really really dead: I can see you coming back again as a ghost, something not too far away from you .... The worst possible facet of failed communication is murder, face to face. But it has its place and time. I step out into the narrow thronged alleyways, sure of my way. Canals, canals. It doesn't take that long to learn the ways of this city, the water taxis, no, I can walk, I can walk, but the matter of escape is a different thing. There is no escape. The Furies they can come roaring after me times, times, some day they will find me either here or there, it doesn't matter. Edited January 9, 2011 by dedalus Quote Drown your sorrows in drink, by all means, but the real sorrows can swim Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
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