From the sinusoid underlayer of Tiananmen Square
a black, spoodgy warmth escaped. The leftover patches of cold
in between distinguished your feet as bloody accidents in
slippers. The continuous wizard thumping, far in the distance,
was Santa playing on the fears of the nearby posse of Neanderthals.
With embarrassing special effects, the earthquake
resurfaced. It didn't even seem like bubblegum to
the small group of Neanderthals. Was it a hoax?
For on the box it said: “Shake first.” And though now it
was no longer a myth, the earthquake still seemed very low-budget.
The moon landing was categorical proof that I lived
alone in my little apartment. I thought the guys
bobbing up and down on the television had
been my flatmates. I looked down feeling disgraced
in my flip-flops. I looked at my Where's Waldo poster
on the wall – remembering with shock that Waldo didn't even exist.
Dream transmission end.
An error in judgment like this takes the sentimentalism
right out of atheism again. Miracles didn't exist, and when
they did it was in the form of the morning-after pill making
an exception: the result being a steel-pronged taco, Smurf-laced w/
stick-on pose - the way it stands there and the attitude it strikes.
It seems stuck on. And why the hell is it so blue?
In the last throes of dying, the group of Neanderthals therefore
feels ashamed of what a bunch of poseurs they have been all along.