ZOMBIE HEART
January 8, 2013
Spice Island Hal sashayed into the local beverage dispensary and partook of nectars sufficient to render him incapable of movement. Whereupon Portugese Nell Pasternak, entwined overhead in a complicated arrangement of chandeliers, brought forth the following tapestry of speech:
“And the flaccid tentacles of night descend
Entrusting our hope to a writhing dawn
Oh when, oh where, oh why, oh what
Can truth be leveraged under its oily sheen?
And what about the moth?
Oh, the moth and I despair.”
Silence followed. Then noise, silence, noise, noise, silence, noise, silence, silence, atomization, star formation, and a new chance for secret robots to make nice with eternity.
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