I get it. I finally got it. it’s that IT. that thing that avoids wit. it’s the straight faced truth. or lie. don’t matter as much as the transmission lines. clear messages. clear messages. the transmission moves uninterrupted. the heavy tones drone on for the it. it all rolls along like a loaded locomotive. where it goes no one knows. they seems to think it’s going to the reserve tanks. that place where all the illegal scripts and stolen script pads are stored, safely from the horde of garden variety office drones who’ll stop at nothing for another dose. so they wait at the station. thge drones who are stoned. some hide in the train yard amongst dilapidated cars. they huddle for warmth until one of them looses their bowels and runs the rest of them off like scampering rats -scattered by the stench of living death. that it! one of the drones exclaims. she’s reached nirvana. she’s seen that inner truth through her drug addled brooding. and soon as it comes it gone and that itch is back and she needs the benzis and it over. the it is there. looming. she exits the empty train car like a bullet outta sawed off 12 gauge. she scatters across the rocky railway yard. no one is there to witness her fall from sanity. she lays on her back with a blank stair – the stars above twinkling hope like beacons for another life. heaven she wonders? probably not.
the obea man on the island, sitting bow-legged in his thatched hut, knows nothing about the scattered office princess laying spirit nude on the tracks. and yet he knows. the system is working as the elders professed that it would.
lawd ave mercy upon uno sinners. lawd god. a yuh dem a need. a satan dem a get.”
Lucifer gu wey