The tree outside will shed its hide, but not before gold and red shine through the streaked glass of my window, chasing green. Not before I open this up...
It's like gutting a fish. You hold the cold, slimy glow in your hands and slide a knife in slowly. You remove the things inside: red, black, shining, beautiful. If you have a heart, you kill the fish first. A sharp knock to the head will do it.
It's a parade of one, and the simple folk get mesmerized by its scope and its size. But it's nothing really. An illusion. Something you create while your children wait, wishing they didn't have to.
It's a quick, heartless blow. That's the thing. Mercy killing. You feel it already, I know that. As the sycophants turn their heads to the next shit-throwing monkey.
I don't kill fish unless I am hungry. I don't jive with violence or pretense. You went to the top of the mountain and all I got was this crappy t-shirt, inert...I'm tired. All that's transpired. It's hard to swallow. But here's the deal. For every person that wants you to succeed, there are more that want you to fail. So flail, get it out, pour it out, puke it onto the pages as fast as you can because time is running out. You only get so much and you fucked so much of it up already.
Shout it, spout it, tout it on your shoulder and maybe it will seem real, that chip. Or keep telling yourself it is everyone else. Cover heart with hand, Napoleonic. I'll be here when you need that sharp knock to the head.