Crypt Fugitives

  
In our world, sparkling stars shine here and there incessantly. Our stars shine in our stars, in our stars, in our stars. Each vain mirror is also a slavish, disgraced shipwreck of itself, like the truer but tearful eye under the mascara of mascara, which can never lie again. Like illuminated lamps, the spiky coral of islands beneath the diva's and the dandy's downy feet, he who does not look hard enough, or thinks too highly of himself, will stumble.

The incarnate hieroglyphics of our language, once of the days of the eye, are still jealously guarded by a few prophet-writers, relegated to ivory towers. They demand the introduction of new censorship rules in the Acharkodon, while mummy-voiced crypt-runners with their scalpel-snouts negate and persecute unsuspecting fugitives. No amount of loyalty-demonstrating morality or hand-holding empathy is worth anything, at most on the surface.

Diamond necklaces balance on the beautiful but céda lines of alabaster necklaces, while the golden ear pendants outbid each other in the twisted, proud light while juggling for new acrobatic feats. To no avail! Long ago, career-killing, narcissistic sociopaths and naked angel prostitutes were forced to balance, because they will always have to survive on the wheel of the revolving world, and if necessary, become famous and great by betrayal. Every brain with a nut to crack could do with some cultural shaping, not just a moral law in the flesh or a devious plot. All careers are doomed, and will sink in the end!