Washing Machine Dream

Well, here we are again. Me and good ol' Morpheaus. Bloody shit. He's constipated. I might be if I don't find an exit fast. I open the good ol' door and I see 10121977 in my dream. I passed him his disk. He says follow the white rabbit. I let it stew in my brain and said, "it's not rabbit season." Then he said, "Oh fudge, I say I'll have to see a doctor about that problem."

I closed the door. I wonder if he was serious. Then the doorbell rang again. A new inmate, name's 05111987. There was that killer rabbit tattoo on her shoulder. The floor beneath me begins to disintergrate. The phone began to ring. She stretches out her hand. What should I do? Pick up the phone? Or take her hand?

Day No.296: An island of pigs. Still an island of pigs.

Which, of course is true. Every man is an island. Every island some coconuts and some ferocious animal which wants to rip your skin out and perhaps pick on your bones. But there are plants. And they grow. Then some settlers come and burn the place to the ground. Then build industries. Then money. Capitalism which makes man weak.

I got off that island years back. Now I'm back again. Blasted. Now they're building a casino on it. What does a beggar like me have anything to do there? Pigs. Let life be a pig marriage. At least the pig is committed. Some women marry pigs. Fat ham and sausages. Sprinkled with parprika. Voila!

Two legs bad. Four legs good.

I live with the stench of knowing that I'll have to rescue someone off the island. Hopefully I don't rescue a pig. Maybe I can rescue a rabbit. OR a horse. Oh well.