The sun, having nothing better to do, shone out of Samuel Beckett's arse. Aside from a few wisps, even the clouds couldn't be much bothered. Another hot one. Before the end of the night was out, much sweating would be done.
Problematics hang over the dramatic present like a change in tense. Western power declines into degeneracy and shopping. Local non-conformists walk past. The precariat toast the top of another fine morning. Read all about the Great Degeneration! On your Kindle in under a minute. Yours 'til the Sixth Extinction.
Trolley and Melon's inconspicuous leisure is a sociological marvel. For the sake of appearances only, the pair can go weeks without lifting a finger.
Narratively speaking, their non-productive use of time is the death knell of good story-telling. The stories that are told tend to involve highly adventurist leaders who fly by the seat of their pants, as political systems misfire and fail left right and centre, and the rampant maximization of commodities blows up in our faces. Publish and be damned; self-publish and be ignored.
Trolley and Melon seek sanctuary from the many-headed technological hydra that consumes creation and plays the piper's tunes. To regress to the 20th century seems sensible, but there are just too many punch lines and Melon can't resist a good detour.
At the periphery of Melon's vision, there is a leading European statesman having a painful attack of sciatica in full view of the cameras. To keep in with the hipster vote, he manages to pass it off as a regular NATO session with his chums as doomsday clocks another minute closer to midnight.
With nothing much to do, time suddenly appears to be of the essence. The deadline surfing Presidential blimp has burst open spewing toxic orange bile over three counties. Drunken Euro-accented bad guys have parachuted across the Fenlands in a geographical fandango worthy of the name fiasco.
Trolley to the rescue. From out of his jacket pocket, he produces the solution: special grade duct tape. There is almost no problem in the first world that the American military has not solved with the power of Johnson & Johnson's Duck Tape. You'd be quackers to use anything else!
Fire in the sky. Hell underwater. Paradise LNR in Granchester. Melon looks forward to duct taping himself to the burning skyscraper. Jean-Claude Juncker is on the record, spouse, Christiane Frising has insisted it be called Jesus Tape.
It is regrettable, but necessary; stupid, but enjoyable. And at times, it is hard to tell if the Gods of narrative even care.
Trolley and Melon are still very visibly sober. They await the return of the Fennish weather with relish. Onion and tomato.
Problematics hang over the dramatic present like a change in tense. Western power declines into degeneracy and shopping. Local non-conformists walk past. The precariat toast the top of another fine morning. Read all about the Great Degeneration! On your Kindle in under a minute. Yours 'til the Sixth Extinction.
Trolley and Melon's inconspicuous leisure is a sociological marvel. For the sake of appearances only, the pair can go weeks without lifting a finger.
Narratively speaking, their non-productive use of time is the death knell of good story-telling. The stories that are told tend to involve highly adventurist leaders who fly by the seat of their pants, as political systems misfire and fail left right and centre, and the rampant maximization of commodities blows up in our faces. Publish and be damned; self-publish and be ignored.
Trolley and Melon seek sanctuary from the many-headed technological hydra that consumes creation and plays the piper's tunes. To regress to the 20th century seems sensible, but there are just too many punch lines and Melon can't resist a good detour.
At the periphery of Melon's vision, there is a leading European statesman having a painful attack of sciatica in full view of the cameras. To keep in with the hipster vote, he manages to pass it off as a regular NATO session with his chums as doomsday clocks another minute closer to midnight.
With nothing much to do, time suddenly appears to be of the essence. The deadline surfing Presidential blimp has burst open spewing toxic orange bile over three counties. Drunken Euro-accented bad guys have parachuted across the Fenlands in a geographical fandango worthy of the name fiasco.
Trolley to the rescue. From out of his jacket pocket, he produces the solution: special grade duct tape. There is almost no problem in the first world that the American military has not solved with the power of Johnson & Johnson's Duck Tape. You'd be quackers to use anything else!
Fire in the sky. Hell underwater. Paradise LNR in Granchester. Melon looks forward to duct taping himself to the burning skyscraper. Jean-Claude Juncker is on the record, spouse, Christiane Frising has insisted it be called Jesus Tape.
It is regrettable, but necessary; stupid, but enjoyable. And at times, it is hard to tell if the Gods of narrative even care.
Trolley and Melon are still very visibly sober. They await the return of the Fennish weather with relish. Onion and tomato.
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