Correspondence (Part 2)

Of a post apocalyptic expression, my dear Frederick, spoken in the wired drone of a somnambulist's newswire; sent running silly of it's own sinister tone: And, and I choose to start this thought with the dreaded "And", I might speak to you, Sir, capitalizing the first letter of your name in my mind; or in sinowy mood, I too could take from your name the "proper" part of the noun and scrounge its nose in the less than desirable, in my mind of course. Cause is the real question here, and why do we mean to cause, in our less than ecstatic tone, a radio waved pang of soulful emotionally charged proverbial heart murmurs, to uproot that beat of other's ideation of body turned to thought, and why do we force others to turn from the smile, to a tear ridden jerking smirk of "why are you doing this to me?" I too, Frederick, cannot excape the extended hand of the lamb of god who has taken away the sins of the world, and is therefore allowed to demand my value be offered up for less than it is worth: That I am to be the blue plate special, humiliated in the name of His bad day, of Her rough week!

I scoff at those inane sycophants, who allow the "holier than thou's" to poach their existence like an endangered animal, to eradicate from the earth of their cosmic ooze, that last semblance of humility and sage virtuosity, that last utter drop of the udder of life that is the goodness bound inside each soul:

But wait, wait tirelessly for me, Frederick, I scurry to halt, laughing a sanguine hefty arched chuckle of cynicism, because I know deep within the primordeal depths of each soul's own soul there is but an everlasting rehearsal of sorrows foulest songs, the singers deep within selling for fodder, the paper with which these ballads are written, to the next in line, just so that they can burn them, destroyed in the hellions waste can, smoke billowing forth, they crowding around its rusted rim and faded chipping green paint, hands held to mouth huddled as a begger, for a chance at staying warm in the coldest of dark dungeons that is the ethereal body proper!

It is cold, Frederick, and I must warn those who are not schooled to observe this cursed colony of degenerates, that amongst Beelzebub and the merry pranksters of the down under, the creatures of the sullen abyss of folly and sin, the deep below, the duck and cover run ammock of the thorned and wicked, the crouching tiger hidden sin of a devil's den; in that place it is most certainly not Hot, it is not all central heating and pellet stoves, it is not all chocolatey smores and heart attacks. It is already frozen over...and in that farthest, vastest most kindred sprinkling of snow flakes and hanging icicles, the ice cube and freezer box of a temporal point on life's road map, you burn at the fact of the colds most cold moment. That in heat's hottest moment, in it's point of burning itself to a crisp and then fluttering those crisps into heat-filled transience, and all is said to be most hot, a cataclysmic climate change occurs forging forth cold! And in the furthest points of this cold ridden heat deprived soverign nation, you get burned by the touch of cold!

And So Frederick, it is for this reason why the soul merits no warning, wages no wars, and wallows in no way towards sympathy or fear, but it is fridgid solid frozen and hot to the touch, the character of those we call humans, less humane, able to positively stick to one another the warblers call of hatred and self loathing. I hold contempt for them; that their "appearance" may merit a judging crowd to award them no points for the many non-talents and limited looks they possess! I too though Frederick, may be one of them, are you?


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