“Birdman” – destined to be a masterpiece of classic proportions, even if 97% of the movie-going public doesn’t get it.

At the risk of presenting a long, wordy, supercilious examination of this cinematic tour de force, I will merely say that Birdman is one of the most intelligent, peering American films ever made.


I would say it’s “ironic” that the film offsets the idiocy and American cognitive shallowness of superhero movies against the cerebral, fraught baggage of a thinking person’s struggles from within the confined maze of a layered, non-contiguous existence.

I won’t cite irony, however, as this is the purpose, the artistic design, of Birdman.

Birdman is a testament to this duality.

The battle that tears those of awareness apart: the whorish, sensory-laden call of the basest human hedonism versus the cathartic, but not entirely unpleasing, repulsion found in our bones and its reaffirmation of soulful self-awareness and spiritual ascendance.

Posted in L7

An American Thanksgiving blessing to obesity, Ayn Rand and “maximilism.”

There’s an Atlas Shrugged (the book) page on Facebook which I didn’t know about as I am not generally keen on the Randian philosophy, or whatever morphological monstrosity its current manifestation is at the hands of materialistic, utilitarian youthful types of the day. In fact, I would never have known if one my Facebook “friends” had not liked this page, and thus, filtered in a Thanksgiving greeting from said Atlas Shrugged page on her wall.

This person, who really meets more the “acquaintance” requirements than “friendship” criteria in my sphere, is not someone I envision as being the most literate or philosophically-minded person in the world. This person is female and quite obese. She has recently come to represent a new archetype I’ve been pondering for the past several months.

She is very obese, overbearing, loud, exaggerated, excessive. In all manners of existence. She is quite the antithesis to me, but we get along on a level required of social intelligence that allows us to coexist with others flexibly on that plane of existence that is born of necessity and pragmatic cooperation. Which is to say, we have absolutely nothing in common other than dumb circumstance. Whatever. It’s all good. We are both mature enough to realize we can skirt each other while still precariously humoring the other’s incontrovertible presence in our daily rigmarole.

We are diametric opposites.

Whereas I am a minimalist, a modern day urban ascetic, a battle further compounded by the absolute need to survive in an environment that requires more, much more, she…well…

I have coined a word for her type. A maximilist.

She approaches life from a completely foreign perch than my own. Initially, I was astounded to discover she was an alleged Randian (if in fact, Facebook likes are indicative of anything), or that she even knew who Ayn Rand was, but after reading the passage which was posted as a Thanksgiving greeting on the Atlas Shrugged Facebook page, it sorta fell into place.

It now made sense why she would like this Randian principle of abundance…because my acquaintance is a maximilist.

Maximilism has a face.

Fat Rand

My friend is obese and she indulges in all facets of the world and life, and she measures spiritual accomplishment and succor by how many avenues of sensory experience she can affix her reality to, and of course, the more vivid and physically sensational, the better.

A maximilist is a vessel that leaves himself enough space to absorb as much of life’s sensations as possible (and if there is not space, this does not prevent further accumulation). Food, sex, emotion, pleasure, pain…the maximilist merely requires a sensation in order to feel sated. This leads to obesity, addiction, abuse, emotional gluttony, sadism, passive bullyism. A maximilist is a veritable feast of human existential byproduct. A maximilist will create sensation if the environment has none to offer. The maximilist is an abundance addict.

Abundance, of the Randian reference above, is the denouement to a maximilist life lived, the final act of a life steered and fueled by maximilism that is writ overbearingly in the daily life of the subject, a series of seconds, minutes, hours, days, that serve to multiply the more, more, more, that he so craves for the lifeblood of his soul.

The Randian bullshit about productivity is merely soulless ambition, fathomless desire; it is a base hunger, robotic in its inhumanity. It is an outlook that asks itself how much until we’ve filled the container?…and answers, good, let’s keep piling it on after that in order to prove our efficacy as human consumers of abundance.

We will continue to till the seeds of productivity and the excess redeems our existence. Because we are maximilists!

As a minimalist, this pains me.

For a minimalist, abundance is the floor of the container; for the maximilist, abundance is the burial of the container in overflow.

It’s not difficult to see how American obesity’s new clarion call might very well be Ayn Rand. The American drive to survive and excel was usurped by the mutated virus of maximilism, a state in which abundance created a bottomless well for our collectively gluttonous belly to draw upon.

Posted in L4

Overly smug Angelenos; portrait of Los Angeles fanboys.

from Blogging Los Angeles:

There is a breed of Angeleno who is thoroughly enamored of this city by the ocean. This resident devoutly points to the weather, the scenery, the restaurants, the geography. Yet, as far as I’m concerned, there’s little else to enjoy about this town. Like a little slut you find yourself falling stupidly in love with, Los Angeles is a siren call that feeds our inner depravity.

As far as I’m concerned.

Yes, the weather is great if you’re the type who enjoys a year-long monotonous march to the shiny sun and back. The topography is wonderful for a large city. You have the mountains to the north, the beaches to the south, the canyons studded with mansions and other mysterious homes, interlaced with glittering shadows that hide this town’s blackened heart. Los Angeles is cool in some respects, but when one looks fairly at the big picture (something many smug L.A. fanboys don’t do), I don’t believe the good outweighs the bad to such a degree that one must feel compelled to boast shamelessly of “loving L.A.”

Los Angeles appeals to certain demographics, certain personality types, as is the case with most large urban centers. If you’re young, ambitious, upwardly mobile; if you’re into the dating game and you are a Liberal foodie; if you’re extroverted and motivated by status and materialism. Then Los Angeles is the place for you.

There are many smug Angelenos in love with their city.

From a local blog, Blogging Los Angeles, there is this.

Today was Public Days of the L.A. Auto Show. I brought my son and a neighborhood kid I’ve known since he could barely walk. Its our annual tradition. We left to grab a bite to eat at L.A. Live, Yard House to be precise, and exited to find this vista. The sun bouncing off the Marriot/Ritz Carlton illuminating the ultimate L.A. icon, the Palm Tree. It was otherworldly.

Add in it was 80+ degrees outside in November and it couldn’t be a better reminder of why I love Los Angeles.

Now this is an example of the smug Angeleno for whom fate has brought to the right spot. He has found a parcel of land that suits his temperament.

I don’t belong here, on the other hand. This is not the parcel of land that suits me. Smug Angelenos annoy me because they gloat over a lot of semi-illustrious crap that many, many people don’t value nearly as much.

I hate crowds. I hate the sun. I hate lack of rain, lack of gray, lack of cold.

I hate traffic, I hate driving 50 minutes or an hour just to go 13 miles. I hate the pretentiousness, the egoism, the greed, the materialism, the crass mindlessness.

I hate the summer and the surreal blending into summer that the other 3 seasons represent in Los Angeles.

I hate Social Justice Warriors, but especially those of the entertainment ilk. Everyone in this town parrots the same tired, rehashed liberal groupthink niceties, from the elite boardrooms down to the obligatory trying-to-break-into-the-Industry grunts that swarm the daily ranks like ants on moldy trash.

Yes, L.A. is beautiful and wonderful, if you like red.


Posted in L1

My Misery Payment Contract

Sometimes I believe that my strategy has pre-announced itself as a course for this life of mine. Announced and been forgotten and breezed by my comprehension while in plain sight. A ghostly vision of the wind that leaves a rustle unseen in its wake across my vision.

This strategy was thrust upon me but I never had the opportunity to clear it or deny it or prepare for it.

It would be great if I could consciously allude to the strategy that guides me with the acknowledgement that it was ordained and the set of rules/laws that would steer each day and my every move.

But I can only sit back and examine 50 years in ambivalent retrospect and assume that I must now capture this legacy and assume it as my own, and draw the bulls-eye around this flatulent life’s arrow that has brought me to this point. I would have appreciated some notice. But none. Now I am left to piece this mess, this morass, together, to assemble the puzzle, that I’m not sure is even intact, and make sense of my existence in order to lend it meaning and predictability, and perhaps if I’m not being too greedy, the semblance of structure. The greatest shame is to have a revelation after it’s too late to shun it.

I think I’ve taken all the misery, dejection, failure, and abject horror that his life can possibly offer and impossibly taken it upon myself to experience it all fully as of the Now, but in the process, have diluted it with the span of time that comprises my life, in effect, spacing out the pure shit life has to offer and strategically spreading it over all my days as I would a knife-scoop of butter over a piece of newly toasted bread. Whereas most normal’s don’t experience such unpleasantness until it happens, whatever and whenever that distant, invisible, dreadful moment in their life is, I made a deal whereby the full load of life’s harshest offerings would be handed me in one lump sum, but for the sake of sanity, I was allowed to finance this misery over an aged span of years, many years (well…as many as my life will allow). This left a carefully graduated sense of despair that would visit me on a continual basis, a minimal measure IV drip which, multiplied over my life, sums all the pain I will ever experience, but which, injected daily merely results in a consistently morose, vaguely unhappy, steady march toward ultimate culmination of death and extinguishing of the misery payment contract I signed up for.

I never experience vivid displays of pleasure or joy. The other day I had a conversation with a woman who told me she has cried from pure happiness at times in her life. I stared at her blankly. I could not relate. I told her this. I couldn’t comprehend that. I have never cried from joy, nor do I foresee the day I ever can. I never experience such unbridled happiness to the degree that it possesses my soul.

This is because my misery payment contract is in place and it is a lifetime agreement. I traded in happiness for a series of measured and soiled spurts of downsized, weakened agony.

It’s a win-win!

Posted in L2

The Disneyland Paradox.

Lest you get the wrong idea, I am not a fun guy.
In fact, I am one of the least fun guys in the world. I’m convinced of this.

Le Blogger

In spite of appearances. This selfie of yours truly taken at Disneyland yesterday is horribly unrepresentative of the darkness that bloats my heart and coats the countryside. Disneyland is the worst fit for a person like me. Disneyland is make believe. Disneyland is where people go to escape and have hollow fun amid the facades of a world which is a bunch of overpriced make believe. It’s a vicious, virulent circle of fantasy, this place. Disneyland requires a certain personality for its visitors to enjoy and embrace fully. I don’t have that personality. I’ve ceased trying to find that personality or faking it, although, judging by this photograph, I certainly seem to fake it quite well.

But really, I am a ham.

I am a big ol’ attention whore, but I have this psychotic ambivalence that attends my attention whoring because I absolutely despise attention and human interaction. On the one hand, I take photographs like this, but on the other, once the shutter clicks, I am an inhibited, pathologically pensive, somber, withdrawn person. After almost 50 years, I have perfected the fine art of absolutely disengaging from the external environment, especially one such as Disneyland’s where there are too many people who seem intent on placating a predisposed definition of “fun” and “happy” that I can’t begin to understand. I retreat and try to look at as few obnoxious faces as possible.

But still, I look. And because I am “this way,” my mind does not burden itself with frivolity, and instead, continues thinking and examining and dissecting this morbid existence called humanity and society. I am a vigilant reclusive misanthrope. If I could boast of completely ignoring people and shunning their obtrusive trespass upon my reality, I would feel a man of principle; but as it is, I go on about how people bother me but I realize that I still pay too much attention to them, even at a place like Disneyland, and this straddles the line of hypocrisy.

While Disneyland visitors are having fun, eating suicidal food, yelling and talking and pointing, I just sit, the eternal outsider, and watch them and study them and I cannot let it go.

Gravity is my fixation, levity is my adversary. I relish my ability to reach into a Zen zone of displaced reduction, that place where I ensconce my psyche within the lone tunnel that leads to the outside world while failing to scale its length. From here, I peer out at the foolishness of this mad human race that can never just simply not be, and in fact, spends its last ounce of energy trying to figure out how to be through its numerous artificial contrivances and mindless diversions. I cannot “be for the sake of being,” something it appears about 97% of my fellow humans have perfected to a repugnant degree of smug indifference.

In California Adventure, which is really just a mini, alternative Disneyland a few strides outside the main exit, there is the “Cars Land Radiator Springs Racers ride which was my favorite. The ride sets you up in a faux sports car that winds and races through a series of imaginary Southwestern Canyons. There are a few winding drops, but nothing so revolting that you’ll feel as you left your intestines behind. It’s a down-scaled roller coaster with lots of additional Disney movie-props-come-to-life that are guaranteed to please kids and dubious adults.

After you exit the ride and walk toward the exit, there is a panel of screens displaying automated photographs of all the cars as they made their final drop. If you search, you’ll find the photograph of your own car and the g-forced pressed face image of yourself which you can purchase. Since it’s so expensive, the photo is usually taken home by park-goers in the form of a personal phone- or digital-camera image. It didn’t occur to us to take a photo of our own car because we were too busy laughing at ourselves. By the time I fished the camera out of the bag and took the photo, a whole new panel of photos filled the screen and replaced ours. I clicked on the shutter too late. Instead of capturing our own wailing faces, I ended up with an image of the one the cars from a later race that replaced ours. Rather than deleting the photograph, since it didn’t relate to me, I dwelt on the damn thing. I found myself analyzing and mocking it. Of course.

Cars strangers

My first reaction was that of curiosity, since you don’t see Asian male/White female couples very often, and at first glance, that is what you have here. But I remembered that these cars only fit 3 across and Disney offers a “Single Rider” option in which you can choose to board rides alone for the sake of speeding up your wait. This made sense now. Asian dude was not with the White chick. That shit is a stretch.

No, this Asian family of 4 (parents and two children) chose to split up the crew so each child would be accompanied by a parent and a couple of single riders filled up the spare seats (a couple of lunatic White ladies). The poor kids, judging by their barely visible foreheads, had no idea where they were going, either. I would like to delete this photo now, but it continues to entertain my derangement.

Another observation: I should have stood in front of that panel of photographs and seen how much time would pass before a Black family popped up on the screen.

I might still be there.

There are very few Black people at Disneyland.

To clarify, there are even fewer Black families. It seems most of the Black people I saw were younger, presumably single, and with non-Black groups. The rarest sight was a Black-Black family with children. This was not a common sight. Now don’t get me wrong, the admission to Disneyland is formidable…about $100 a pop. Parking is $17, the food is never less than $5. Poor people can’t afford Disneyland, and they shouldn’t try.

But Disneyland was full of Hispanics. There were as many Hispanics as there were Asians. The average Mexican-American household income is just shy of that of Black families, yet Hispanics appear to flock to Disneyland. Surely there are enough affluent Black family units to make a respectable showing at the happiest place on earth. But you wouldn’t know it. There were no Blacks. Yet, my people were all over the place…and my people were inordinately represented by families. Mexican families abounded at Disneyland. You might get the impression Mexican-Americans are mired with disposable incomes judging by this strange Disneyland Paradox.

I have some theories:

-Blacks don’t like to spend money on “clean” fun.
-Mexicans are more likely to spend their “last dime” on the family unit.
-Blacks aren’t into “Disney frivolity.”
-Mexicans are not sensible about their money despite being poorer than Blacks.

Ah, Disneyland was good for something, after all.

Posted in L5

The Benevolent Alpha, aka, the Dictator of Pussy; everything Bill Cosby was not.

I have no idea if the “rape” allegations against Bill Cosby are true. When it comes to females conjuring up past incidents of butt-hurt, they are prone to contriving and embellishing to the rabid degree of a Harlequin whore author.

Still, I would not be surprised if true. Cosby, the famous placid and benevolent character he represents to the public, or has, for decades through his cloying, gentle shtick, is easy and semi-predictable fodder for this sort of revelation.

I don’t care, really. These women are fine, damnit, and they probably indulged the scenario as well. They are not saints and neither was Cosby, in all probability. The mass media-consuming public has a hard time letting go of facades and illusions. That is why there is such an “uproar” about this fiasco.

Who cares.

What I don’t understand is why a man of Cosby’s public caliber and fame had to resort to such Beta, try-hard methods to get into these chicks’ pants. Dude…you’re a famous comedian! You have your own show, you have a public persona, you are rich, you have influence, you have Pussy Pull. Many, many women will do anything you want just because of the image you represent. As a powerful male media symbol, women, primitively wired to breed with putative “leaders,” will want to fuck your reputation, if nothing else. Maybe not you, but what you stand for. Who needs more than that? When you stick your dick in them, who cares their motivations?

Let me just say that if anyone should resort to the methods you allegedly did with these women, it would be me. A man of anonymous character, a no-name loser with zero influence. That is the shit people expect someone like me to do.


You could have had any woman in your heyday. But you resorted to this seedy repressed hormonal flounder game?

If I had my own show, my own public franchise of recognition, I would have a throne, damnit.

I would sit up there and wait for women to march into my lap. I would be the dictator of pussy. I would wave women away or signal for them to continue. They would come to me, not me to them. I would be the benevolent alpha and the women I bedded would never cry and bitchmoan decades later.

Posted in L6

Poor Gemelo went out Mexican style; snatching death from the jaws of victory!

There is something bitingly Mejicano about this little deadly accident!

It happened in the southern Mexican state of Tobasco in a town called Paraíso (ironically, “Paradise”) during a horse race.

According to this news account of the incident, a man known affectionately as gemelo (“twin”) in his hometown (which mysteriously goes unnamed), had placed a wager on a horse which flew by his vantage point, clearly ahead of the other horse.

In his elation, poor gemelo appeared to stupidly jump, scoot or dance onto the race track, carried by momentum as he cheered his horse by.

Only to realize that the other horse, the “loser” he had bet against, was still running. Of course…why had he not thought of this small detail? In the microsecond he realizes his horrifically and tragically menso move, he appears to brace himself just before the horse, the same horse he jubilantly rooted against, mows him over, killing gemelo.

It looks like gemelo might have been holding a bottle of beer. Judging by his less than graceful exit from this universe, it was probably not his first or second.

Lest you make fun of his name and snark, “Oh no, there’s another one out there…,” I would like to assure you that Mexican nicknaming conventions are bizarre and are rooted in an alternate reality of irony and satire quite unlike what normal English-speaking White people might ever understand. There were probably a million reasons his nickname was “twin,” but in Mexican parlance, I highly doubt any of them involved an identical birth-mate.

The first thing I thought when I saw the speeding (losing) horse barrel gemelo into oblivion was hijole, a Mexican slang word denoting amazement tinged with a dry sense of amusement. A peculiarly Mexican blend of fatalistic head-shaking.

Posted in L3

USA Today publishes examination of racial arrest data but then reverts to typical Social Justice exclusion of the most obvious explanation.

Staggering numbers. No surprises, truly, but staggering in their implication and cautionary alert.

USA Today analyzed over a thousand police departments across the country, and specifically the rates of arrest by race across this span. After poring over the data, the news outlet concluded:

When it comes to racially lopsided arrests, the most remarkable thing about Ferguson, Mo., might be just how ordinary it is.

Police in Ferguson — which erupted into days of racially charged unrest after a white officer killed an unarmed black teen — arrest black people at a rate nearly three times higher than people of other races.

At least 1,581 other police departments across the USA arrest black people at rates even more skewed than in Ferguson, a USA TODAY analysis of arrest records shows. That includes departments in cities as large and diverse as Chicago and San Francisco and in the suburbs that encircle St. Louis, New York and Detroit.

A clip from the USA Today video attached to this story winds down with the premise:

“Those [proportion of Black arrests] differences are easier to measure than explain. They could reflect biased policing. But they could just as easily reflect vast economic and educational inequalities.”

from USA Today

Of particular interest from the printed story:

• Blacks are more likely than others to be arrested in almost every city for almost every type of crime. Nationwide, black people are arrested at higher rates for crimes as serious as murder and assault, and as minor as loitering and marijuana possession.

• Arrest rates are particularly lopsided in some pockets of the country, including St. Louis’ Missouri suburbs near Ferguson. In St. Louis County alone, more than two dozen police departments had arrest rates more lopsided than Ferguson’s. In nearby Clayton, Mo., for example, only about 8% of residents are black, compared with about 57% of people the police arrested, according to the city’s FBI reports. Clayton’s police chief, Kevin Murphy, said in a prepared statement that “Ferguson has laid bare the fact that everyone in law enforcement needs to take a hard look at how we can better serve our communities and address any disparities that have existed in our departments for too long.”

• Deep disparities show up even in progressive university towns. USA TODAY found police in Berkeley, Calif., and Madison, Wis., arrested black people at a rate more than nine times higher than members of other racial groups. Madison Police Chief Michael Koval said most of the arrests happen in the poorest sections of the city, which are disproportionately black, and where some residents have pleaded for even more police presence. Still, he said, “I think it would be remiss to suggest the police get out of this whole thing with a free pass. We have to constantly be doing the introspective look at who we are hiring and how we are training.”

These statistics are astounding for the degree to which they rebut the popularly acceptable social model involved in this discussion, a model whose primary tenant appears to be “thou shalt not make obvious aspersions or offend anyone.” This model results in popular media, which must appease the delicate sensibilities of its collective audience, to continually place the cart before the carriage in all matters of race and criminality. Maybe race precedes economic inequality…but this is an evil thing to say and you will be swatted down and drummed out of business for it.

I’m not contending that biased policing and economic and educational inequalities have nothing to do with accelerated and disproportionate Black arrests; what I am saying, however, is that one possibility that must be considered, even if it is harsh and offensive to the Social Justice Totalitarians who steer public discourse in the media and culture, is that maybe Blacks are disproportionately rotten to the core.

I have no problem saying Hispanics have a higher rotten-to-the-core ratio (I’m Hispanic).

This inability to maintain objectivity on the part of everyone is one of the primary causes for inequality to begin with.

The problem with pretty, delicate lies is that they hide and allow deadly grievances to fester under the brittle skin of a torn society.

Posted in L6

The ultimate Right.

There is one inalienable right that Americans must embrace and accept if this culture is to ever reclaim its sanity.

Not until we can internalize this principle will we finally enjoy the ostensible freedom of expression they tell us this country represents. With every special interest group nowadays usurping discourse and allocation of shame, Social Justice Totalitarianism is not far away and groupthink will be our collective master.

The homos are some of the worst offenders. They exploited the forgiving liberalism of this country, and now that they have opened the door to “gay acceptance,” they seek to close it in everyone else’s face.

The most important right for Americans, of all stripes, to learn, is:

We reserve the right to not like anyone we choose for no other reason than we simply choose not to like everyone.


Posted in L7

The terror of the Wooden Box of Knives

In the midst of today’s ISIS-beheading-of-a-Westerner of the month breaking story involving the most recent victim of religious global violence, Abdul-Rahman Kassig (formerly known as “Peter” before his conversion to Islam), I found the video purporting to show Kassig’s beheading. It was typically slick, and those who put the video together proved their adroitness with video assembly. The music and slow, dreadful build-up interlaced with footage of bombings and rifle assaults and other desert scenes of mayhem were cleverly edited in gruesome hi-def detail while the normal bleak, exotic and restive Middle Eastern music fatally lumbered in the background. The final video production comes short of portraying the executioner soldiers as transient Hollywood extras collecting a SAG paycheck by posing a few minutes on the big screen.

Forget the fact that the most gruesome scene of the short movie was the beheading of about 15 prisoners clad in black deathwear.

Oddly, Kassig’s murder was not one of those portrayed. Intelligence officials are puzzled that the scene which shows Kassig’s decapitated and bloody head is unusually crude (in a cinematographic manner, that is), unlike the quality with which the rest of the beheadings were produced. Conjecture is that perhaps something went wrong during the execution of Kassig. Perhaps there was a struggle; or maybe the ISIS soldiers were scared off by combatant military actions prompted by the United States or its allies. In any case, there is a general perception that the failure of ISIS to portray Kassig’s beheading on video is indicative of problems or failure on their part.

As atrocious and horrible as the beheadings were to watch, one of the most unsettling horrors of the video occurred moments before the executioners put the blades to the prisoner’s necks. The segment begins as the prisoners are marched in front of the camera in a single file. Each prisoner appears to be assigned one executioner. A partner unto death. There is that personalized death treatment. One can only wonder where these men were in the moments before they were roused to their feet. Ordered to maintain the prone hunched-over walk, the prisoners faces seem buried in the shadows of the folds of their dark clothing.

death march

There is something morbidly terrifying about being assigned your own executioner, the one mortal being who will slice your neck open and remove your head from its bodily, life-sustaining planter. Everything about this is pure terror. When considering an adversary, if you feel the slightest fear of him, you’re already at a strategic disadvantage. The Muslim’s have the fear on their side. Much of the inflammatory anti-Muslim hyperbole voiced in the United States among the Conservatariat is thinly veiled reflective fear.

But the worst part happens when, accompanied by your personal executioner’s firm clench on the rags you will die in, you lastly must march by the Wooden Box of Knives.

That is the best description of it. It is a wooden box of apparent sturdy construction and it contains numerous military caliber knives whose mission it is to free you from the imprisoned world you’ve been confined to for the past few months or years. You march by this box, you and your executioner. Just as your executioner is assigned the task of killing you, each one of those knives in the box is randomly assigned the task of cleaving the sanctity of your neck’s integrity into two with such ferocity that they eventually will separate your body from head. The knives, poised in that box. One of them has your name, but which, we don’t know. That randomness of it all is the most frightening and horrible thing to behold.

box 1

This parade of death mocks your sense of free will, for you are as sure as dead now. The random and disarrayed nature of the knife intended for you is not measured until you are on death’s doorstep. This is the ultimate tool of destruction, destruction of the psyche and hope.

It’s the Wooden Box of Knives. Where sure death awaits behind the tragic door of puzzled unspecific fate.

Posted in L3