Brian…

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Brian pays a visit to his Irish friend who is still in a comatose state from drinking too much during last night. He starts speaking with a weird train of words and concepts articulated in a weird way to match. This might as well be called “Brian and his Irish friend” but it just sounded too dull.

When I was a kid in the early ‘70’s there were those who put forth propositions, and those who had dreams. There were sunny beaches, and bright skies at night with so many stars. All that was a wonder to me.
I must strive to clean up my thoughts among the waves and the winds that blow whirls of blaze and blizzards, before my brain’s boat is capsized by the breakers. I see stairways that try to climb up to heaven, and I see waters that smoke, blurred visions while Joe is on the run. And a hose 50-foot long in the Garden of Eden, right where the sun sets, YES! Where the sun sets.
—‘Shun!
Shouts the admiral. Obscene powers, circumstances are propitious but plans do lack.
—Stand at ease!
The sergeant squawks to the troops, his voice sounds out in reproach.
The hoary woman stirs the rennet. Fields lie fallow; the hour of the hawk is getting closer.
—Haws I want…
Said the man in shabby clothes; asked, he kept hemming and hawing.
No old grudges to rake up.
The influence of the thaw makes the worn-out dictator ricochet; his memory is fake and finished. The flat law will reign over again, and it is not less flat than that of the astute fox, and the vixen he had slept with. What’s in store for us?
There was a lot of talk going on. The promise of a world that was never there, masked in scarlet dyes has killed more dreams than its more wicked sisters in white gowns and black coats.
They are afraid of entropy, they want to be free but they call out for order, yet, it takes all of the foolishness from the mainstream ethics, from their conventions, their pious mindset, and their falsity not to see it is unstoppable. They experience the fact and mistake it for the cause, their viewpoint is groundless and groundling.
State and Crime are indissolubly linked and combined by the phenomenology of the bourgeois law. It acts like a magic spell, it mesmerizes minds already prepared like open harbors on oceans of excrement. Yes, you can cry out your pain, but crying out your pain to the wind does not remove the pain. This is the measure of our oppression, bedazzled by the great political swindle of freedom.
So little men come, dumped into the stream from the drain. They come with moderate pace, they come to reinforce, as well as overwhelmed by the same swindler. They create the rejected so that their fear may not sound so craven. They all have enough guilt to start shooting, for in those eyes their alleged innocence reflects all of their rubbish and paucity. What they ignore is that their convictions rest on very shaky foundations, they wander about in history like poor unhealthy ghosts. They are doomed to see their goal vanish, for history does not accept a change of step without prevailing over the current relations of dominion. Their theory of value gets entangled in their same theory of worth, and both are but two horrible monsters, ready to devour the weak, whatever the reason of their weakness.
Their world is of a pedestrian style, whatever choice you make, you’ll end up kicking the air.
Why do mobsters have the same features of the comfortable?
All committees of business interests act on behalf of the same Master.
All of my will has poured down on these petty mean outlook codes, morals, beliefs, principles, values; the secretions of mine are like frosting on this mainstream pie set out to embank the tide.
—I’ve seen Truth itself and it shone like the sun
Avowed, though not spoken to, the man from the nasty town.
—Drat! And, did it have claws or did it have a sharp glance? Were there feathers on its shoulders? Any sharp teeth protruded out of its mouth?
Questioned the woman shaking in her chair.
—Whoa!
Said the man from the valley, and maintained that
—We want to see them bend to our rules, or they will outflank us all.
He was said to be among those that have pull.
—Huh, scurvy, and lame. Now that your “All” has out-flown your enemies, whom do you praise? The hated man or the flow of events?
He scurried away.
Haters gonna hate. Who said that?
—If something isn’t working, tear it down, and build something that does!
The fool in the village said.
Now Brian takes a look at around, he shrugs, and, thinking he has nothing more to say, he decides to leave while his Irish friend still snoozes. When the latter, hours later, wakes up, notices Brian’s cigarettes on the table close to the armchair. He seems to have heard things that sounded quite odd but made sense. And that’s why he chooses to drink more and fall asleep over and over again.

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