I know now that there is a well of anger in every man, that occasionally springs up and brims over when frustration has flooded in too secretly and collected up. It is the frustration of trying to fit ourselves into lives, with the excess trimmed off and subverted. Too much that is vital in us is trimmed to size; too much is fatally denied. We cut off our arms and hands and half our penis, so that we can be slid smoothly into our slot. We bleed. Emotionally we are cut off, and we bleed. And the blood-water of frustration, life-frustration, wells up flooding and bursts over the rim in a show of anger.
But it’s no cure. There is no cure, so long as our arms are cut off and we are stuffed in our slot. We bleed and we bleed and we bleed, until we are emotionally drained and all is pus, a cold-cereal pus inside us, and we are dead, and give the last twitches.
We are dead, we are dead. Snugly fit in our slots, cold, blood all drained out. We are dead, we are dead, bloodless dead. White cold pus all inside like mush, bones all rubbery like a penis, penis all wilted like a dried-out, plucked flower. Cold dead. Dead.
But still we think. Our brain still functions, like a computer of twitching reflexes. Twitch. Twitch. Twitch. And we pass another law. Twitch. Twitch. Twitch. And we build another city.