BOOTLICKER

9086

2007-02-07

The devil:

Musty. Musty musty musty. So old. It’s held together with sackcloth. It’s hard to describe but, the colours your eyes see are one-dimensional. That doesn’t mean black and white, dark and light.

I don’t intend to confuse but you don’t really use your eyes.

It doesn’t stand out. If you saw it, you wouldn’t be focusing on it, you’d be taking in everything, and your sense of depth perception grinds to a halt - bricks, trees, sky, the now refrigerated air razing your windpipes - and it’d talk to you.

To you. TO you.

It won’t reach out and grab you, and you’re not going to be convinced to reach out and grab IT, I mean if you’re really that indifferent and alert when the time could come, sure, why not - in fact, knock yourself right out.

He remembered that it was behind Pearson Street. Pavement or something. He said something like gravel and sand and when it ‘left’ he didn’t like the way the sand and the pavement was.

Excuse me: Carpet, sand and pavement.

I think the nicest it could appear then wasn’t really nice enough. I mean it wasn’t being eaten out by maggots but it must’ve forgotten what the right thing to become.

Don’t laugh. Look, just don’t please. I want to say it, but I don’t want to be put off - I don’t want to be pushy but - I don’t mean immaturity or anything.

This skeleton with no proportion, kind of slowly disintegrating into the air - “diffusing” was what he said - it’s ‘robe’ with it. It had a hat.