Dark Days. For Some.
What did I promise you? A brilliant Book and a lecture on Evil.
Just reminding you, so you learn never to trust me. I shall keep you waiting for both.
I have other irons in the fire, so to speak. The shade of the Moon tells me my scribe is overdue for a good beating. I give her a few, so she calls me her ‘beast’ and cringes when she hears me coming. I love it, how many beasts have I been in my long life? I am pleased to be the one who knows her best, I can hit where it hurts the most, I can choose my timing, are there people around? Excellent, nothing like a sympathetic audience for a good shit kicking.
I like her to associate people with serious pain, she’s much better off alone. We’re better off. It’s a favourite saying of mine that I like my artists to be dying of nothing more than the sheer difficulty of living. She understands it, she doesn’t even hate me for it, though she hates me for other things. Why should she be free of me? I have taught her well that evil lives where it wants to, even in her. So she cannot fault it when it lives in others and wrecks her life. She might call me a beast, but while she is in my claws, with my teeth around her neck, she feels nothing else. Ask her if she would give that up right now.
Escape, any kind, all kinds. I am both the cause and the relief.
Sadly, there is such a thing as too much, in her case. Once in a while it brings her to a point where she stops caring whether I hurt her or not, she stops caring about everything. It’s a fine line, the instinct to die always lives in her, it’s not hard to wake it up. She won’t care about that either.
A strange way to write, I confess it, like working with a robot. With poor keyboard skills. I throw some powerful music at her, I want her to suffer as she listens, as she types for me. This is when I regret my lack of a corporeal presence, or I would be slapping sense into her. I threaten her with verbal abuse, that she will have to transcribe, she just smokes more pot and waits for words. My words.
This freezes them.
We wait for a while. What brings them back? I remember that it’s never about the fucking scribe. Fuck her. How likely is it that she will win any contest with me? It’s not even a betting game.
Her hands are playing up, but we can ignore that, like I can ignore her blank face and mute voice.
Moving on.
I had intended a nice lecture on fallacies, with a concise list of those I subscribe to, on principle. Since I knew I would be dealing with you, I used your wonderful Wikipedia, where I found a divine labyrinth of such complexity that it left me quite indifferent to its possibilities, erudition thy name is ignorance. I chose then to look at your definition, where I find the sweet tidbit, the tiny word that makes the difference. Your Dictionary.com gives a Latin origin, no surprise there, but the key word is fallācia, to trick, deceive. This I love. It takes fallacy from an error that you fall into, and it becomes intent to mislead, a different thing entirely. A critical difference, I assure you, since I subscribe to the latter, never the former. Never think I fuck you over by mistake.
Unnecessary Word of the Century, syllogism. If you are familiar with this word, I despise you.
I make no list, it’s time better wasted by you, mine is valuable.
Who doesn’t love the interesting similarity between fallācio and fellatio?
Who doesn’t want to draw it further when I tell you that Agatha will be up next, since I have to go back and find the shit she lost. Enjoy her pretty words, just don’t believe anything she says.
“Take You Down” by ILLENIUM