Friday, December 28, 2012

Mr. Marshpants and the capitalist vacuum(V)

As Elda Joyance Merange Stuffings worked the counter in Embollism, it was clear for any to see that she was just as humble as an old dog and bland as tap water. Her life had been a succession of indistinguished experiences, none of which marked her. The whole voyage, with it's lack of seasonings-its want of joys and hatreds, had twisted her face into an aching posture, as if she were always expecting some sudden jolt that never arrived, and every dull moment through which she passed compounded her silent agony-an agony of want, like that of a plant in a desert. She was a stone or block of wood or lump of iron that sat ignored year after year, and her homogenous material was dense such that nothing gave effect to the tight bundle of molecules in the center, no heat or cold, no emotion. Her one positive light was that of Grandpa Frank, from when she was a small child. He had been her source for love, support and protection. His memory was a spector that remained near her, breathing a comfortable warm air about her. It was a feeling that defined his presence, that friendly face that had been with her at birth and would be there, diffused, about the soil of her grave.

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