(May 5/06)
Pauperism forced me to heist a roll of toilet paper from a tap house this evening. I slipped the roll into my knapsack, stopping to glance at my pitiful self in the mirror, and left the men’s room through the door through which I had entered. Public house toilet roll, I was to discover, has a much wider hole in the centre, forcing me to place it atop the cistern, not in the roll dispenser as is generally de rigor. Now I am de rigor, and not the toilet roll. I, the toilet roll brigand, am a sad wretched chattel thief. Perhaps unwittingly I am being influenced by Zeno, who’s Confessions I am presently reading, perhaps not. Water the plants, that is what I should do, not pilfer lavatory wipe from some unsuspecting hostelry. Hume, after all, taught me that I have no sentiments or a moral bone in my body, but rather a threshing machine that separates the moral wheat from the unconscionable part of me, the chaff, which, I have come to learn, is a colossus unto itself. Today I have two choices: either I water the plants, which are thirsting into cactus, or thieve yet another roll of toilet paper. Two choices, yet an invariable ratio of thinking. I am perplexed, as is my de rigor in most things I put my mind to.
Stalemated
Pauperism forced me to heist a roll of toilet paper from a tap house this evening. I slipped the roll into my knapsack, stopping to glance at my pitiful self in the mirror, and left the men’s room through the door through which I had entered. Public house toilet roll, I was to discover, has a much wider hole in the centre, forcing me to place it atop the cistern, not in the roll dispenser as is generally de rigor. Now I am de rigor, and not the toilet roll. I, the toilet roll brigand, am a sad wretched chattel thief. Perhaps unwittingly I am being influenced by Zeno, who’s Confessions I am presently reading, perhaps not. Water the plants, that is what I should do, not pilfer lavatory wipe from some unsuspecting hostelry. Hume, after all, taught me that I have no sentiments or a moral bone in my body, but rather a threshing machine that separates the moral wheat from the unconscionable part of me, the chaff, which, I have come to learn, is a colossus unto itself. Today I have two choices: either I water the plants, which are thirsting into cactus, or thieve yet another roll of toilet paper. Two choices, yet an invariable ratio of thinking. I am perplexed, as is my de rigor in most things I put my mind to.
Stalemated
a standoff
keeps me conscious
of the gap being filled
or is it emptied
keeps me conscious
of the gap being filled
or is it emptied
above my head
1 comment:
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