It’s not like the rhythm makes it any easier to dance; it just makes you want to.
That’s what he always said. While the text spun out like silk and the mysteries came scarce and unnumbered, the man spent his every minute thinking of ways to get one back, to form new fists such as the world had never seen. Parking lot prayers and messianic massages were the weapons of his enemies, and their fixations were small and immobile: wretched fantasies of what was not and never should be.
It’s not about sex or frustration; it’s about killing people. I don’t give a shit what your psychologists say – they’re wrong about someone, even if it’s only me. I see this guy and I’d rather not, and I’d rather never again, so I kill him: doesn’t turn me on, but I like it anyway – what in the hell do you think that means?
Mice will eat cheese, but they survived for thousands, maybe millions, of years without it, but people think of mice and cheese together just because of what they’ve heard and read and seen about mice, not of actual mice. So it is with the rest of your life
You think I give a shit about a “story?” Here’s a story for you: Once upon a time there was the end. Good story, huh? Here’s another one: Once upon another time there was another end. There’s your stories. I care about the truth. If it’s true that once upon a time something ended, then so it is and so shall it ever be, and that’s why it matters; not because someone wrote about it.
A mutual friend of ours once said, “That guy’s going to get you killed one day.” That hasn’t happened, but the person who said that is dead. He was the head of security. He saw all threats but the imminent. He thought that the President didn’t know what he was doing and then he died.
It won’t be long before I forget him altogether. And it won’t matter that you read this. You can’t forget what you don’t know; all I’m telling you is that mice like cheese. President Caligula says Fuck You.