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Not Simply An Unkindness

Black oil for wings and curiosity for eyes stares furiously at our blindness, unforgiving and benevolent like God's loving wrath at our own destructive ways. Before taking flight, covering the light of the world, he, she, it, sweeps all things within a sleek outstretching of trickery and deceit – all in humor and indifference has the world been founded, explosions and genocide notwithstanding. Born on the flight of dark wings land is torn from water and history begins to end itself. Unlike his murderous cousin, Raven is simply an unkindness.

"Newton, Mr. Gravitation and reason, was a quack alchemist bent on making shitty metals in to gold and convincing himself that God actually gave a shit. You know, order and harmony, something like Adam Smith and capitalism, he'd be a fucking manic depressive, cutting himself up the river if he realized the harmony of that goddamn theory. Marx was a tyrannical economic philosopher who, just like all the other fuckers, slapped around and tossed out socialist and communist alike that didn't conform to his supreme understandings – some fucking conflict theorist. Engel's, that prick, rode on horse back and played croquet, and in his spare time passed out charity to Marx who couldn't manage his own expenses, editing and espousing the plight of the poor due to the wealthy capitalist and property in society and history – he inherited a shit ton of money through inheritance - fuck-HiM. Charles Darwin, Mr. I've Discovered the Origins of MAN SO FUCK YOU, was an unqualified ass-hole with a red bleeding rash of racism and sexism – an A-1 Tabasco boiling pot of cow shit, if you ask me. Ghandi was a pedophile and Mother Teresa lied to herself and others to grasp some notion of God, ending in a weeping grave of faith. Only fucking one left is Jesus…we don't even want to get into that shit."

A friendship is sharing the unkindness of the world to make it more bearable, one that is born in disillusionment and paradoxes that invade the sanctuaries of our minds, ripping down icons and murdering hope while screams for reason and justification are found in every echo. Echoes fade and silence pervades without faith in a future separated from the cold rotting hands of the past. History will be the end of us all. It will record every onerous, supremely confident, piss drunken steps to our deep, deep, holes of progress. It will be an eternal rank cavernous memorial with Black wings circling in an indifferent funeral procession.

Jet black hair silhouettes a pale-ish angular face. Stubble from this mornings rush protrudes off his chin – he hates it I think. The darkly colored square thick glasses intensify a look of insanity and curiosity bound in a hatred for all things that think or contemplate sin. An unmanaged black t-shirt and pants suggests he either worships Johnny Cash or is just pissed that nobody else recognizes how shitty recent developments have become in the pointless destructive evolutionary stages of man – 'course…I could be wrong. I hate strangers. Through the transitive nature of fear, as I understand it, one should scorn all strangers, for they embody an element we all seem to be petrified of – the unknown. That's perhaps why I hold God in such high contempt.

Crossing paths with this particular stranger though, I watch his boney unkempt hand, slip into the folds of his faded black pants, pulling out a succulent pouch. He deftly draws a paper out, sprinkles in dead fields of tobacco, gently works it into a beautiful cylinder, and lights one end in an amber glow of ecstasy, sucking, ever so slowly, in an angel's smoky breath. I love this man. We should die together.
"bum a cigg of ya?"

The pouch is passed and a stranger dies, while a friend is born.

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