I sit amongst the gathered trolls of the dark lord.
They work like animals for the glory of individuals rather than groups, for one rather than all. Team spirit is often banded around like the dissemination of a critical report for the eyes and attention of everyone, but the relevance of a few.
The report would mean nothing to the majority, and yet the minority want you to be aware that they work as much as the majority. Please view our fancy report with the thousands spent on coloured ink, expensive photography, and endorsement from the senior management.
I woke up this morning...
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There was nothing untoward about the dream I had of you…
You were in a bathroom, pale in colour, with subdued lighting. You were lying in a bathtub, with the taps facing away from you, your lower body pointing towards it. The left leg was draping over the left handside of the tub, angled, so it fell down.
The curtains surrounded you, showing only yourself. A very mellow, warm light shone over you. It was very weak, and almost verged on the dark. The subdued lighting in the bathroom itself added little to what I could see.
Your head was leaning to one...
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The weekend was, well, to put it lightly, a fucking great laugh.
Jynx and I smoked some, just as Chief Smokesome once said to the Indian’s that entered his tipi and asked him,
“Chief Smokesome, my sheep are dying from some viral disease that we cannot control, what in the name of the spirits can we do?”
Chief Smokesome, sitting on his couch-cum-chair, stretched his back and yawned. He cleaned his mouth as though he was chewing, yakking like a cow on the cud. Chief Smokesome rubbed his eyes having awoken from a wonderful slumber. He wasn’t particularly fond of giving advice, however,...
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