it's Y2K and we're at the rondezvous point awaiting the sentinels who
bear the flask of the millennium from which all must drink the blood
of the oxen. Our clothes have vanished and been replaced by togas made of donkey-cloth. This truly is the apolcalypse.
Earlier tonight in this den of beasts a goat approached me and
declared himself sovereign ruler of my soul. I am afraid. The insane
jugglers have arrived, preaching their dark prophecies and spinning
looms of the deepest blue. I fear a long winter.
In the night, three pipers passed our wayside camp, piping solemn,
greasy melodies that chilled our skin and made us hungry for blood.
The eyes of my compatriots now scream for my flesh-- but I shall not
be the first to dance to the rhythm of the twilight monks who erect
their monoliths in cryptic patterns about our camp.
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
1 comment:
...dude...I just want more about your crazy co-workers...though I will give you kudos for creativity...
Post a Comment