even though Correa has finally granted asylum to Julian so that the empire’s little concubines in England & Sweden can’t pass him off to the growling beasts
crippled by the relative impossibility of ever soaking in the light of intellectual & creative inspiration, said to come from the bright, shining, illuminating awe of someone truly great,
on his deathbed he stares up at the ceiling--- a stale, supposedly calming light blue, basks down upon his now disease ridden body & with all the tubes pumping painkillers & poisons into him,
it’s the smartphone that makes the deal, it’s the laptop that writes the script, it’s the game system that weaves the web, it’s the social network that
twasn’t an absence of belief in hexes or voodoo shit, black magic, witches or warlocks, which brought to mind the maddening of the crickets, for 900 species of those sinister gryllidae