70 lines
4.3 KiB
Plaintext
70 lines
4.3 KiB
Plaintext
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_____________ _/_/ | | \ \ _/_/ _____________
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| ___________ _/_/ | | \ \ _/_/ ___________ |
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| | _/_/_____ | | > > _/_/_____ | |
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| | /________/ | | / / /________/ | |
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| | c o m m u n i c a t i o n s | |
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| |________________________________________________________________| |
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|____________________________________________________________________|
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...presents... Somethin'
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by Franken Gibe
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>>> a cDc publication.......1993 <<<
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-cDc- CULT OF THE DEAD COW -cDc-
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____ _ ____ _ ____ _ ____ _ ____
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|____digital_media____digital_culture____digital_media____digital_culture____|
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He was sleeping. The blinds slashed horizontal stripes in the sun, hot in
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descent. He had been dreaming sweat, flailing arms and heat. He got up, and
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waited for the customary head rush to pass. The room spun slightly, his flesh
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clawed and creeped and the white plaster wall disintegrated for a moment into a
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haze of prickly black dots. From the street, from below, an indistinct melody
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mixed with the sound of the breeze. It was something darkly familiar, but
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forgotten, like those dark memories from childhood that surface for a second
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from the gray pool of the unconscious, glisten with painful precision, and are
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gone, gone as the tongue twitches, the lips quiver, and a half-breath tries to
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pronounce a word that's no longer there.
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The house was empty. The street was empty. Outside, the sun lay flat and
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white on the ground, making the asphalt soft and the sidewalks blistering. The
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breeze was gone, and with it the pipe-organ melody with the forgotten name.
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Words clicked on and off in his head, like blinking neon signs in the night.
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And in the silence, there was a faint sub-symphony. He called it sorrow. Or
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loneliness. Sometimes he called it guilt, and was sick at 4:00 am, and stared
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at himself in the early morning mirror 'till the circle of black grew, and
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swallowed his face, and the mirror, and the light.
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He thought of faces, but none was sympathetic. He thought of names, but
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none sounded familiar. He remembered happiness, but never without the dull
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metallic taste of anxiety. The light outside was becoming golden, and the day
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slid into the enchanted afternoon, the mystery hours, the dream time. He
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thought of an abyss, and it lay between him and the golden light. He thought
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of impossible sunsets, painful and orange, but knew destiny was beneath his
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feet, in the sticky silent mud, the airless, lightless earth. Against the
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sunset he spelled out green neon words filled with outrage, and pity, and
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longing, and confusion. He couldn't pronounce the words, but he could feel
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them, and he bled.
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_______ __________________________________________________________________
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/ _ _ \|Demon Roach Undrgrnd.806/794-4362|Kingdom of Shit.....806/794-1842|
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((___)) |Cool Beans!..........510/THE-COOL|Polka AE {PW:KILL}..806/794-4362|
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[ x x ] |Metalland Southwest..713/468-5802|Moody Loners w/Guns.415/221-8608|
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\ / |The Works............617/861-8976|The Body Electric...916/673-8412|
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(' ') |ftp - zero.cypher.com in pub/cdc |ftp - ftp.eff.org in pub/cud/cdc|
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(U) |==================================================================|
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.ooM |Copr. 1993 cDc communications by Franken Gibe 07/01/93-#235|
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\_______/|Seven SUPER-CALI-FRAGIL-ISTIC-EXPI-ALI-DOCIOUS years of cDc. K! |
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