rEOCCURRING rANDOMNESS7*

The man in the hat disliked the shamble leg man, yet kept his bête-noir a secret, never once announcing it to the world, the world being, for the man in the hat, a random series of reoccurring events, a bugbear, a return of the repressed, a faintly sketched diorama with bruises and pole marks. ‘Fuck the world’, he thought, ‘I’ll have nothing to do with it’. Displays of anarchy were uncommon for the man in the hat, public displays of lawlessness are unsettling, he thought, so he resorted to inner monologues and mumbling words under his breath. The world grew, expanded, and ballooned up like a corpse, whether he had a hand in it or not. The world was a physiological thing, a cadaver without organs, a cooper’s barrel full of malt and scurvy. He knew this, or thought he knew it, yet things never changed; they simply grew fainter and less savory, loss they’re colour and weight, became meaningless and dioramic. He felt this, this brainlessness, yet was incapable of altering the frame, was unable to push himself out of the way, pull himself free of the cooper’s barrel.