Fall of a boy scout, of a flag and of an icon of the American power struggling to send right in the world. Steve Rogers, once and frozen Avenger, takes a dirt nap. Guts for the offing, a nail in the coffin made of lead slugs.
And then everybody with a joker in their left sock walks in with a grin and hands out looking for the needle to jack into their eyeballs. Chasing the almighty prospect of a gravestone that may last far longer than the last son of Krypton before the pain in the reign of.
Glazing as they do, the rush is quick and the turn around on flipping over the corpse is too short to handle the fact of the fad. One dead. So many more to go. And dead doesn't always mean dead. Even if the autopsy slices the chest open for the mustard and grill.
Thursday, 22 March 2007
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Elemunk scrambles the loose connections bouncing about the mind of Soon Van.
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To the floor and there we shall dance