You know you’re fucking it all down to the ground with your vacant looks and your fish-faced stare.
Then you spoke! I was someone else for a moment engaged in gossiping like a groupie infested with a lust for fame and shiny gold plated bling.
What became of my intellectual underpinnings, a desire for books to enclose around me, and that rebel we-don’t-understand vibe?
Is it I who was mistaken when I judged you too soon? Are filled lips just as tasty as regular lips? Are vacant looks filled with more sorrow than The Picture of Dorian Gray?
I’m bleeding philosophical perspiration from my pores; it flows down into the stormwater drains and out to the sea. I’m perspiring Aristotle, Foucault, Nietzsche and more. I’m infecting the sea with philosophy.
Should I worry that the rich people with yachts will touch the water I infect and find Bitcoin boring?
Will they walk in a different direction or put down their Versace cushions to move about, looking at the sky and the sea as they mutter eccentrically?
Would people think they were being touched by an angel or melt at the thought of the Devil?
Standing and speaking to this rather fashionable Nun, I cannot say a word for a moment as her words creep over me.
She holds the rosary beads up to my height, and I feel that childhood pew. My knees suffered on that wood for sins I hadn’t even committed.
Then she said, “You’re a wicked one the way you think too much; The Devil will get you in the end.“
Miss Nun jolted me out of my musings and back to the dark. Without warning, words escaped my lips as I walked away, “If you see the Pope, you can tell him I want a refund for all those Rosary Beads I had to buy as a kid. They didn’t work…“