grease our devices…


Hey, Shklovsky! Whadda’ doin’ over there? Huh? Singing? Whadda’ ya’? A troubadour or something?

I got that troubadour ballads book from the library, and now I got all the great songs here for my uke.

What’s a uke?

My ukulele, Sam. Whataya’ dense?

Hey, hey there, speed racer! Take a chill pill, pal. No call for ad hominem broadsides, Sparky!

Who you callin’ Sparky? I told you never to call me that!

Ok, ok, Bertolt. Compose yourself. No need to get bent —

Don’t tell me when to bend outta’ shape, Einstein! I’m getting cold here, something creepin’ up my back. I’m getting that familiar sepia toned vignetting coming over my perception. I’m filled with angst. I’m being consumed by the void again. It’s eating me slowly from my core outward. I’m… I’m… the screeching void… the nothingness… that feeling of —




That’s ok! It’s passed. It’s all over now.

All over? Jeez, Shklovsky, you just had a melt down right in front of me. You ain’t all right.

Perfectly, so, my dear chum. Let’s get back to greasing the devices, and then I’ll be first.

Ok, friend-o! Whateva’ you say. But what did that all mean just now?

We must grease our devices in this best of all possible worlds.

Ah, ya!

“He was never a happy man. He smelled faintly of future failure…”

— Salman Rushdie / Midnight’s Children

About istsfor manity

i'm a truncated word-person looking for an assemblage of extracted teeth in a tent full of mosquitoes (and currently writing a novel without writing a novel word) and pulling nothing but the difficult out of the top hat while the bunny munches grass in the hallway. you might say: i’m thee asynchronous voice over in search of a film....
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