۞
The Following is something that comes after. A follower is one who emerges after. After The Ayah. At The End of Each and Every Ayah. The truth was brought forth with laughter.
°I just wish we could banish the sound of it sometimes°
{a serious thought}
۞
This was the end for Stoker. The moment that Jack could not look back. Jack Stoker: the stockmarket broker, professional hamshanker, former love for the investment banker.
“What's the balance, little Gemma?” he askèd his darling daughter.
Stoker askèd the question with the fear of expectation.
“It just reads 1,000E, daddy” replièd his darling daughter, little Gemma.
۞
It is It. The end of the Internet.
To Be or Not To Be?
No 'Is'
No 'Am'
No 'Are'
No 'Was'
No 'Be'
It is It. Was it Anontology or was it History?
To Be or Not To Be?
° Will She? Won't She? °
° Will He? Won't He? °
No 'Is'
No 'Am'
No 'Are'
No 'Was'
No 'Be'
To Be or Not To Be?
°no sense of self, just one author and one protagonist?°
It is It.
ITSELF
THE SELFITSELF
THE VERY SELF
DEFINING ITSELF
..|....|....|.....
It is It.
END-USER.
۞
The Following was a series of ending: the beginning of a myriad of characters unfolding. Our undoing. Ding! Ding! Ding! A bell does ring …
°ablanathanalba°
۞
Kaiaphas walkèd along the Mediterranean shores of Haifa. He had been to pray at his father's and his father's father's grave. He was at peace. He still carried his Magnum 45 revolver handgun, strappèd around his shoulder and hanging next to his rib cage. The metal was hot inside the hot leather holster from the blistering afternoon sun. His Magnum chocolate ice cream was cold. His stone-wash denim shirt was unbuttonèd, to reveal his white cotton vest underneath, and it billowèd around his torso in the coastal draft.
Kaiaphas took another slurp on the Magnum ice cream … ° « j'adore chocolât… » ° he thought.
Kaiaphas was crunching through the chocolate casing, cold and melting.
{penetrating vanilla}
Not an ounce of ravdak davar botherèd him.
° … °
{an Ishmaelite approaches him}
۞
Mister William Quincy, a la Qavanagh Q, the original QQQ, the hero to the few who believèd in English Sociocracy, not the English Defence League variety. The messiah of the voter, the Sociocratic Person, as it was known. Smugglèd out of Ingsoc., extradictèd via the British Embassy in New York for tearing asunder the UN Declaration of Human Rights. Quincy was sat, handcuffèd, in the Embassy, a repetitious spectacle mocking him, playing him at his own game. He saw himself in his own image, and a croak of anguish hit his throat as Cable News Network portrayèd the true English Sociocrat as the enemy of the Federation.
IT PORTRAYED:
{Quincy ascends to the UN Floor}
IT SPOKE:
“Article 1. Some human beings are born enslaved, the others more equal in dignity and rights. It is they who have dismembered their conscience through their reason, and fight amongst each other as greedy siblings.”
{mumbling amidst the congregation}
{cognitive dissonance}
“Article 2. Everyone has forfeited their rights and freedoms because of this Declaration, with distinction of every kind, such as race, colour, sex, language, religion, political and other opinions, national and social origin, property, birth and all other statuses. Furthermore, partial distinction shall be made on the basis of all of the above …
“Article 3. Those who can afford to live may purchase liberty and security …
“Article 4. The Taxpayer in receipt of purchased liberty and security shall be held in slavery and servitude. The Black Market shall augment this …
“Article 5. Those who reject slavery to freedom shall be subjected to cruel, inhuman, and degrading treatment …
“Article 6. Everyone participates in a Mass Census according to the Law …
“Article 7. The Law protects who the Law abides and incites discrimination towards those less equal …
“Article 8. Acts violating the fundamentals shall be trivialized as a spectacle in Kangaroo Courts …
“Article 9. Those subjected to arbitrary arrest, detention and exile shall go unnoticed in an unreported world …
“Ten? Begin again! Need I go on … ”
Mister William Quincy had reachèd the crux and zenith of his statement arriving at the biggest media spotlight on this earth.
{tears a buck bill in half in protest}
William Quincy was wearing red, skinnyfit denim jeans, a damp-looking green Ingsoc. badgèd t-shirt and a light green corduroy jacket. He was wrestèd from his pedestal by Security International– white-power, white guys, white shirts, black dubbin'd boots– and manhandlèd all the way out of sight and down.
°Who's heart am I a man after?° thought Quincy. °His own° he concludèd.
A group of deaf people walkèd in to where William Quincy was being held down below. William Quincy was considering his present incarceration. His wrists stared up at his vacant gaze, his hands interlockèd by cold steel handcuffs. He contortèd them in existential frustration for the means of acquiring his own freedom. The deaf people began to interpret his plight and startèd signing each other their respective views on oppression.
{signing the shoulders of the man who stood on the shoulder of giants}
۞
Is it Mister Magog or Psi-Qolog; 'og, 'og, 'og.
°He could be?°
{the whole question of identity}
{circumventing anonymity}
