Monera Mason is a mischief-maker.  Her work includes: starting questionable cults with notorious software gurus, writing abstract fiction, catalyzing shenanigans which she deploys on unsuspecting bystanders in the City of Neon. 

Stargazing in Jocastic Omphalos

No one tells you that when you eat some cookies time will be exploded to an eternity.  That the balancing out of any euphoria is dashed against the angry sea cliffs of time.  There isn't enough escape velocity to propel you anywhere simply succumb to the aimless drifting of kites high and low.  

No spoons wicked enough to pierce the veils that so mask.  The plantive scraping against cups searching for that last morsel that would stave off conversation . . . this the function of so many spoons. How long can you not blink? Are all such solitary angels angry?  

Confusion seemed the correct course of action given the choices.  Such feigning always leaves most people more settled.  

Could we spiral out and see that place where people are forced to grow because they are at such risk of losing what they love.  Or have I stood at these bedsides before? Where no one shows up and alone is so very tangible.  Where my hand was the last one held because a family walked away from the virus of sons and daughters.  In these moments there is not a lot right or wrong, boiled down to last breaths, it just hurts.  

There is no joy in besting such opponents.  No need to dawn the face paint and go to war for a place that has only brought me peace.  I have stormed beaches and brought hope to shores.  I have taken my victories and like Titus become war weary.  I wish to find peace at my doors and not the impish scoundrels of malicious offspring and love torn mooring lashed to childhood vessels.  Tis not the season of such spirits.  

Ring the temple bell and let such vibrations disintegrate such Jocastic omphalos.


 

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