Orpheus Was Right

The Welsh left me for dead by the roadside. It had been hours since they had first picked me up, but I could hardly remember any of it. All that was left was an impression of red. My clothes were sticking to my back and my hair matted to my face. There was nothing left to do but pick myself from off the ground and try to get back to Dallas. Such a long way, and somehow I had travelled without my wallet.

'Is there anything I can help you with?'

A man was suddenly standing over me. I grabbed his ankle and felt my way up toward his belt buckle. It was there that I discovered the true nature of our burgeoning relationship. It was his job to keep me from falling back into the sewer, but also was it his job to ensure that I never really brought myself from such apparent depravity. I thought I could see the shining metal star on his right breast pocket, but instead it turned out to be the tip of a pen. The manner in which his gaze accused me of such evil wrongdoings sent me reeling as he grasped my wrist with an unmistakable firmness. I had to say something to pacify the situation.

I need to find the Welsh and get back to my home, was my intention, although in retrospect I must have said something much more hostile as I soon found myself being dragged into a brightly lit room. I prayed for a music, an enlightenment, to break up the monotony of the white linoleum and flickering neon. I felt that this man who brought me into his office wanted me to resist him -- It doesn't matter, I wanted to tell him, c'est toute une absurdite. The pain he was inflicting on my left arm while fastening me to my seat suggested that he knew little of Sartre's dictates, however.

'I think we need to talk about your future with this firm'
It was at this point that I know my..........what consciousness i had left was a mental illmness as i let my head fall onoyo theh keyboard...............


what am I supposed to be writing here? my memory fails.


'You've been wasting a lot of our time by means of this acid acid aicd acid acdi adic aidca caiad cida dcia icad as of late fallen by the corporate wayside. It has been brought to my attention that you left thursday's meeting without signing the new agreement. All of our representatives have been signing this agreement and you must be one of our representatives...'

The conversation apparently had continued along these lines until my falling onto the floor broke the eerie silence between our respective understandings. It was at this point that I realized that I had been re-enacting something which had been staged before, and this event was not in fact worthy of such distinction as becoming the ritual in which I was currently engaged. There was an unmistakable tension in the air between us, as red once again filled my vision.

Promptly I left the room, and the Welsh left me for dead by the roadside.

I got up from my bed and felt around for my keys. Instead all I could find were quills, an endless sea of quills stretching from my fingertips to some exotic and sublime beacon. Am I a true renaissance man? asked the poet in me. I was determined to ignore his damn preaching, despite his pompous righteousness. My determination quickly failed as thoughts began to wash themselves upon the poet's shores...Even though I can find a tangible nothing at the end of a sentence, I can't find my place in anything. Localization! That's what I had been told by the man who made me sign that agreement. Fuck me, do I ever need to find the Welsh! was my mantra to a song. It was meant as an attempt for the poet to reign in its quills.