One journey ends, another begins. Our lives are a ceaseless cycle of beginnings and endings, an endless parade of forward momentum, even when standing still. Little things, birds and butterflies and blue suede shoes comprise the minor components of joy and befuddlement at each step of this game.
Marcus has the twisted demeanor of a lowly agent of discord; something about his mannerism, he should be straight and untoward. He creeps upon the living, working his malice, infecting those with misgivings. He won’t stop, not until he drops. A minor event upon the great game, a mouse, a lion to tame.
Cheryl, this one here, a predatory gleam in her eye. She has something to say, even if you die. Callous disregard for her fellow man, it’s all part of her evil little plan. She will make them all cringe, all the varied fellows, even those on the fringe. No remorse, no regrets, no looking back, her villainy is like a drug, like crack. Just one more fix, one more hit, one more act of ill will … and maybe her appetite will finally get its fill.
Jack, a vicious little cockatiel, the likes you won’t find commonly lagging about, a vicarious grin on his face, a cocky laughing shout. His bit of chaos sits within a deep well, a spiritual decadence born straight from Hell. He’ll tie your shoe laces together, even in the worst of dead weather. And once you are down on the ground, mincing about, he won’t mess around. Slice by slice, little pieces at a time, he’ll carve his name into ever thing, even grime.
Veronica, on the other hand, all sassy and sweat. She’s very particular, of every man that she meets. She’ll dazzle them with her beautiful smile, and size them up all the while. Measuring their weight, their value, their fat content, she’s licking her lips, with dire intent. One quick shot of some illegal drug from some place unnameable, and then she’s go them trussed up and malleable. And while they still yet, live, she’ll carve their flesh
And all them, as they cast their lots about are but players in this play, of everyday life stuck in the same groove, the same tomorrow as today. Their games of dementia and murder, sliced up, chopped up just like sheep herders.
In the state where I find myself in, my head and my heart vie to win; the soul of the matter, the crux of the splatter, is how do I get rid of sin? Does sin exist as a stain? Does it flush down the drain? Does it fill up one’s soul? Does it sit like a hole? One wonders, while one plays at this game of life …