A police officer, out of literally nowhere, began running toward me as if to intersect my committed trajectory. I had less than a second to pull out my pistol and shoot him dead. When I reflected on his face I realized he was already a zombie, that his commitment to blocking me was caused by the fact he was already dead. Nonetheless my heart had shuddered at the sudden movement he had gone in, and realizing that it was going to be me or him.
I felt guilty of course, after the event. An American cop, with black features. What was he doing in Zimbabwe? And why his eyes so dead? Too much kachasu, or the catasrophe of his exposure to American society?
I felt ashamed. If I hadn't been moving fast and already totally committed, his intersection with me wouldn't have carried the threat of being deadly. I wouldn't have had to have fired. And yet it was clear to me he was extinguished. A puzzle?
I went downstairs to the bunker restaurant. One could get out of it was by climbing a table, placing solid feet on the white linen, and hoisting yourself up through the ceiling to the upper level. I placed my square feet on the young crowd's dinner table and they didn't seem to mind. I reached up, but this was not the precise point of the location of the trapdoor. I moved on casually, but with meaningful intent.
I ate all the food that had been prepared. My mother had prepared the chicken for us all and somehow in my ravenous state I'd eaten almost all of it, leaving her only a few remnants of the delicious meal -- the meal she had prepared for herself. Twice I ate her meal, in my oblivion. I found an egg beneath the salad leaf that would serve her well as protein but so bad for not only had I eaten the greater proportion of the chicken, but I had not yet noticed this secondary source of protein at first.
I am fatalistic now and in a dream. I'm stuck now in this somnabulistic world.
I'm not sure if I am still captive, although perhaps the whole of my being taken in and put to punishment was all just one prolonged nightmare. I'm the source of my own evil, caused by my own relapse into the infantry stage. What had made me pull out and use that weapon? Here I am, just taking whatever suits me, in a mode of blithe oblivion. Soon they will pull me out and heave-ho, I will be placed under permanent close guard. I'm that oblique.
The Athenian citizens propelled themselves in such a way that their robes swished endlessly in their motion. That was part of their exquisite charm. Beneath the lengths of linen many were held in ankle chains, but it was impolite to notice. I chose to keep my eyes up, at neck level. That would be deemed to be considerate.
I felt guilty of course, after the event. An American cop, with black features. What was he doing in Zimbabwe? And why his eyes so dead? Too much kachasu, or the catasrophe of his exposure to American society?
I felt ashamed. If I hadn't been moving fast and already totally committed, his intersection with me wouldn't have carried the threat of being deadly. I wouldn't have had to have fired. And yet it was clear to me he was extinguished. A puzzle?
I went downstairs to the bunker restaurant. One could get out of it was by climbing a table, placing solid feet on the white linen, and hoisting yourself up through the ceiling to the upper level. I placed my square feet on the young crowd's dinner table and they didn't seem to mind. I reached up, but this was not the precise point of the location of the trapdoor. I moved on casually, but with meaningful intent.
I ate all the food that had been prepared. My mother had prepared the chicken for us all and somehow in my ravenous state I'd eaten almost all of it, leaving her only a few remnants of the delicious meal -- the meal she had prepared for herself. Twice I ate her meal, in my oblivion. I found an egg beneath the salad leaf that would serve her well as protein but so bad for not only had I eaten the greater proportion of the chicken, but I had not yet noticed this secondary source of protein at first.
I am fatalistic now and in a dream. I'm stuck now in this somnabulistic world.
I'm not sure if I am still captive, although perhaps the whole of my being taken in and put to punishment was all just one prolonged nightmare. I'm the source of my own evil, caused by my own relapse into the infantry stage. What had made me pull out and use that weapon? Here I am, just taking whatever suits me, in a mode of blithe oblivion. Soon they will pull me out and heave-ho, I will be placed under permanent close guard. I'm that oblique.
The Athenian citizens propelled themselves in such a way that their robes swished endlessly in their motion. That was part of their exquisite charm. Beneath the lengths of linen many were held in ankle chains, but it was impolite to notice. I chose to keep my eyes up, at neck level. That would be deemed to be considerate.
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