Meitheamh 26, 20231990s
Strokes Of The Outlaw Scribe
The depths of a twisted reverie, where the air crackled with disillusionment and the scent of stale cigarettes, a voice emerged, a hallucinatory incarnation of the spirit of itself. Like a deranged conductor leading an orchestra of chaos, the words spilled forth in a torrent of sarcasm and biting wit, embodying the inimitable style of a certain fearless literary outlaw. "Picture this, my friends," the voice slurred with a wicked grin as if the narrator had just stumbled out of a wild desert escapade.
"I find myself yearning for the sweet release from this mortal coil, just like a legendary figure from antiquity." The sarcasm dripped like a potent hallucinogen, mocking the very notion of martyrdom as a shortcut to salvation. It revealed the absurdity of embracing suffering and sacrifice, painting them as twisted virtues on the canvas of existence.
"Now, listen closely," the voice continued its tone a peculiar blend of amusement and derision. "Imagine, if you will, departing this world on a scorching, sun-soaked day like a tragic hero from an unfinished novel."
The words stumbled and danced, the imagery weaving a surreal tapestry of irony. It reveled in the juxtaposition, delighting in the twisted humor of a grand exit bathed in the relentless glare of a merciless sun as if fate itself were playing a sick joke on the human condition. "And where else in the grand ol' USA would I choose to make my dramatic exit?" the voice roared with laughter and disdain.
It lashed out at the land of shattered dreams and hollow promises, skewering the very foundation of the American Dream. It revealed the bitter irony of yearning for an end within a nation that fueled and devoured aspirations like a seductive siren leading dreamers to their doom. The refrain thundered, an anthem of irreverence that echoed through the twisted corridors of the narrative.
"Selling my soul? No, my friends, that's not the way of this deranged protagonist. But oh, how I would relish the opportunity to hang myself out to dry in pursuing this mad, mad mission!"
The voice crackled with manic energy, embodying the reckless pursuit of a goal while mocking the notion of preserving one's integrity. It reveled in the grotesque dance between ambition and self-destruction as if there were a twisted honor in sacrificing everything but that precious, elusive soul.
Within the hallucinatory landscape of this distorted reality, darkness and humor danced a chaotic tango. It was a portrait of longing and despair, splattered with vivid colors and twisted metaphors. It spoke to the misfits and the disillusioned, demanding they question the absurdity of their aspirations, challenging them to embrace the twisted beauty in a world gone mad.
This narrative, painted in the unmistakable strokes of the outlaw scribe, held up a distorted mirror of the human condition. It laughed at the folly of grand ambitions, exposing the absurdity of the tapestry we weave in our desperate search for meaning. It beckons you and me to question our own reality, to wander fearlessly through the labyrinth of existence, armed only with a pen and a deranged sense of purpose.
-- JSPC [ The Street Artists of Wanton. ]
