h
Me and Mister Licky.
That is what I should have called this literary mess, before I began it.
But is it fair to already speak in the past? As if everything was already over? As if everything has presently come to an end?
Surely that is bad faith.
Faith!
Would you listen to me!
I sound like a fucking Christian.
Not that the Christians are the worst. Yes, they are responsible for a great many wars. But the others are just as guilty.
I do not need to name them. You know of whom I refer.
But in fairness, I should really only speak of the present. That is where it is at.
Here.
Speak of it and it only and not go near another fucking thing. Past and future I mean. Just remain here. Looking around. White on white on grey on black. Do you get the picture?
But I cannot.
The present is a disease no doubt. It is a canker, a cancer. Something of an administrative error that goes unnoticed. A patient already dead receiving life-saving treatment.
Granted, I would rather not think of it at all.
But this is not an option, as you no doubt now.
We have been trying to flee that since we crawled out from the great cunt of existence.
But the physicality of our good selves, with all its faults and failings cannot help but force us to think of it, to be in it, to experience it in all its fucked up majesty.
This is not to say that I do not look back. What you call what I have been doing? If you, my dear gentler reader (whom I will never know) imagine that I have been doing something different, well, keep it to your fucking else.
Ha!
Pardon the profane outburst. Excuse me.
Mister Licky has arrived in with his afternoon tea.
Or something to that effect.
Let’s watch him.
He comes in, head held high and smiling like a brass monkey. Is he here to clean? Does he work for them? Is there a them?
Ah yes.
Unanswered questions.
Where would we be without them.
In heaven no doubt. Basking in the beautiful rays of an almighty God that loves us. But the world does not allow that.
At least that is how it seems.
It would seem (according to those in the know) that we live in what they call ‘unanswered times’.
Bollox, I say.
Every time is unanswered, and anyone who firmly believes that his or her or their time is any less off that the last or the last before that or before than again is utterly and tragically mistaken.
Mark my words.
Only a retard like myself (or Mister Licky, who to be honest does not look ‘all together there’) could articulate a statement such as that and believe in their hearts of hearts (what does that mean?) the undigested spittle that falls forth from out their dirty gops.
What a surprisingly pleasant passage.
—Plate?
I hand it to him.
He leans into me. His hair falls over my face. Tendrils. His breath smells. His teeth are yellow. Stained.
Smells.
Whispers.
—The Matron wants to see you. Soon.
Does she?
I do not talk.
He pulls away from me, in disgust it would seem.
No lick today.
Strange.
I could almost miss it.
—I’ll be back in the afternoon. You better have those sheets ready for her. She was disappointed with your performance yesterday.
Was she fuck!
If she was here now I would hit her!
—Maybe I’ll take a few of these now to wipe myself with after my stool?
I check his hand.
—Feisty today, he says.
Be gone.
I am getting off the point (was I ever on it?).
This is tedious. Awful to the extreme.
Mister Licky is gone. Again. For the day I hope.
Breathe.
Be calm.
I can hear the sea, from the window, in the distance, outside.
I cannot still look up or out at it. Tomorrow, I hope.
Tomorrow.
The walls are
No
I
I cannot.
NO NO
I wonder what time it is. It must be around midday. Dusk, perhaps. A little stream of steady grey light crawls in through the window across the air.
It must be
It
must be
e
