Sunday, May 2, 2010


He looks at the table. There is a gun on the table. He looks at the gun and then at the Committee. He knows he has not evaluated all of the members. He does not know how many members of the committee there are. But there are certainly more than he can see, presently, around the table. He senses the presence of others around the table. Back in the shadows behind those seated. These members are breathing, he knows, even though he cannot hear their breath. No one has told him that he has to evaluate every member. No one has told him that he has to evaluate any member. He has evaluated some of them, and he has made his journey into their beings and he has come out of it okay enough. He doesn't doubt that there are other canyons, other realms, to be seen were he to seek out other groups of committee members -- were he, for that matter, to group the first few pathetic individuals he has evaluated into a unity as he has with the stinky group. But he does not want to take the time. And he does not have the inclination. And, furthermore, he now enjoys a conviction of purpose. An epiphany that suggests a sensical action.
He reaches for the gun, picks it up, and examines it, briefly.
Then, he puts the barrel of the gun in his right nostril and fires.

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