Tuesday, October 9, 2007

Forewarned: Crazy talk

I am a coconut inside my gut. The centipede hung out on the beach while the sun set, and he drank tequila, ruminating on whether Pascal really was right, about religion being all a game of roulette and chance. Dried coconut fell out of my fingertips. When will the coconut stop? How much is there? Why does it all fall into the bucket and where does it then go? Together with the other coconut, or stay on it's own, or does it just disappear. Because maybe coconut can do that. Though it doesn't seem so.

Figuratively, of course.

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