The doors are mirrors, reflecting back the gilded columns, the ceiling reaching to Heaven, the floor of polished stone dug from the Earth continents away, the Praetorian Guard erect immobile inert, the suits, the staff, the residents, the scribblers, the unblinking eyes, and bipeds in red. The appointed stare away toward the exit, measuring the steps to the narrow noisy canyon, thoughts of the struggle the will the victory and now the dominion. The scribblers yap without meaning their staccato mouthings into the soulless eyes of uncounted channels, series of tubes fully functional and empty. A minor sea of red stares mindlessly heartlessly, horrifying gap jawed faces of awe and faux. The wage earners lift wary faces think to bow and consider their escape, too late too late. It is coming down. It is going down.

NOSE HAIR LINT GLAND: Look on my Works, ye Mighty, and despair.


Chatroom History
January 17, 2017 10:00pm - 1:30am

vj pussycat: wow, this is fascinating (11:09pm)
Dj Paulitics: I want tickets to the inauguration!!!... please !... Hey, this is DJ Folitics. Can you come downstairs and open the side gate?.. (11:44pm)