Tuesday, July 20, 2004
Cordovan shoes in shades of oxblood haunt my waking breaks at the Bureau of Reports and Records.
Yes. Adelard of Bath puffs thick, twisting twirls of toxicity, blowing his terrible exhalations airward. Vin Diesel, descending from his eerie aerie on the upper floors joins us, pumping his angry fists at the sun, and screaming unbearable blasphemies into the airy atmosphere.
And I, oxblood! Oxblood!
All around us, our Microregion's most talented stenographers spin like spirographs, bouncing off the inner barriers of the Bureau's coop-like courtyard. The smoke! So heavy!
Oxblood! Loafers! Long have I sought my Ultimate Progenitor, and, I think, long will I seek him. But somewhere in this fleeting shade – oxblood – perhaps, can he be found.
Thank you for your time.
I am feeling ill today.
Thank you for the martinis.
That is all.
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