Monday, December 24, 2012
Thousand: Nine Hundred Seventy-Two
It would be perfect. It would be the last thing, the latest thing, the very thing. It would be a crime. It would be just fine. I don’t know what to say. What is going to happen next is bad. The destruction of all pleasantness. Poof! That’s how it will go. Quick like that. Or maybe slow, drawn out over eons. The mayor’s appointment secretary flicks the corner of the transcendental butler’s business card with a hard red fingernail. Death has provided a career opportunity. Once I had an education. It held me in good stead. Then I had connections.