The Decline and Fall of a Showman's Empire

In diminishing paragraphs.

Some, no doubt, have already taken to grand proclamations of the "Death of—" ilk, emerging pale and preying from the shadows of no-talent; Ergo the failure³³ of this petty revolt³⁴ — for that is what History³⁵ shall prove it to be — to achieve any of its initiatives³⁶ is indicative of a greater— This, however, fails to take into account the inherent— until we're quite ready to spit ourselves clean of the matter and have those unfortunate words as the last ones. Aft. all, who's to dispute? Participants put-out, principle players played-out, and profusion off fanning itself in the shade. Add the pissed-off passers-by and you haven't a recipe for much success;— the revolution, my friend(s), is D-E-A-D (long live the revolution), and I suppose I shall have to bear the bulk of the brunt. (Lest you wonder, I suppose because my lofty predictions and assorted nonsenses are freely viewable, and shall remain so.)

Trope: from the past there is no reprieve. Right; why dwell, when something far worthier lowers itself into a late-night bath? Nonetheless, there may be remnants worth salvaging, one of which, also an R-E concept, I'm myself keen to keep in place, if less outwardly than before. (The image has proved more than a distraction; someone must have sculpted that thing!) If we, whomever that now entails, are to justify any of our idealistic exertions, we'd best hope to learn from our failings — and by that I do not mean 'know our boundaries'; boundaries should not and never be known. I mean, rather, that we should fuel future successes on past mistakes. Sure, a first-year might leave it out, focusing only on the direct lead-up to that great thing we'll do, but a third could not afford its omission, and would incur copious red pen were he-her to do so.

Even if no one has my back, even if I tumble down alone, I will tumble. (This thing ain't a ship, incidentally; it's a hill.) Grass cuts and cowards above me, I shall meet the new halfway and tumble again, bypassing once and foil the embarrassment of accidents. Stay, if you will, but I'm pressin' on. For the towel-headed harpies and clot-headed he-men. Momentum'll get me through if nothing else.

First-Hand, Kodak, Plump

How to tell— Crumbling revolts, denied permissions, margarine flowers (wilting in a champagne glass, as posy would have it); mouths of black dogs, two losses —the latter street-cred — and deadly dead-night silliness. Quite the mouthful and quite the emergence. One must ask: where oh where is that slender confectionery known most as Ben? The heart is so bloody fond by now it could fuck the chrome off him without even pausing to consider its sexual orientation. Ah, but what a wangless wonder here left in his place! An alien filling those trousers? I know, I know, but it's strewth; my own eyes and all that, spied from a bush, even double-took (I dare any eye to fall upon that form and not). And though presently to fry an old dinner, it shall occupy me, as it has, in every grubby fibre, spilling out here as elation, there as idio-horizoneering, in odd beat, hoping the grease will distract the silly thing with the threat of attack. Such is such!

Milked in, I pondered this and concluded — the benefit of being milked in is that you have ample time in which to ponder —, subsquintly to lavish my gratitude on the maker of these moments, the maker of moments; a thank you whichever way forward. The parted menace, incidentally, whose name may or may not begin with a letter that may or may not sit second in the alphabet, remains departed, a whole paragraph on, no matter the reports of his presence. "Sweet me soon" was his last recorded remark, ATTOW. Prophetic? Not really. (And I did, I should point out, see him at a distance on Saturday, walking tenderly to a rotund friend across the way.) It's perhaps unfair of me to impose examination on his circumstance, but I feel the zeit has a right to know, and know now, ATTOR. At any rate, they know now.

Probably the most interesting development, in terms of literary potential, was the August encounter I had with a colleague outside my office. Weathered, possibly a little drunk, he was attempting to nail a Pogo to my door, mistaking it for his.
"You do of course realise—"
"—Yes."
Wasn't the most treasured development, granted — the clicks were firmly elsewhere, however elusive their subject — but there you have it. I have since decided that prudence can go to hell; what's the point, when one day you could wake to find someone drunkenly nailing Pogos to your office door? No snaps, either.