Did Wolfgang Mozart ever have days like this?

[Doktor Howl]

I guess I got what I deserved, way down here at the bottom of the top.  Someone told me there was a top of the bottom, but I don't see how that works, given my arse is planted on coliche.  Nothing under that but the MIGHTY Arizona Cockroach, and he brooks no competition, down there where things whimper & ask for mommy, right?  Only mommy can't help you down there, no.

It's like we told the new guy, you know, don't sweat it.  Lots of guys shit themselves the first time out.  It ain't the fear, I'm told, it's the moving with all that gear on and then *CRACK* past your head and you fart...But it isn't a fart, no.

Or maybe it's like that last angry word with your girl, twenty five years ago now.  When your mouth opened up, all you had to do was say you loved her, right?  Not so hard.  But when you did, all the butthurt and need to be RIGHT came out, and you could feel the sudden chill, and then you saw her years later, and everyone was friendly, but it still felt like a great big Goddamn portcullis was between you.  And it aint made out of iron, not this gate.  It's made out of choices and years and your own foolishness.  You can't move that, no.

Or maybe it's like when you're distracted when you're driving, and you sail right through a red light.  2 blocks later, you're on the side of the road, trying to get your breathing under control...Only somewhen else, you're trapped in the wreckage, looking across at what's left of the family in the other car.  Some people say that other universes occur whenever a choice is made, and who am I to tell them they're wrong?  I am not a professional in that field, no.

You can't really say, just like you can't explain to people that we're Doomed.  I mean, you could, but WHY?  All they do is move to the other end of the bus, right?  Let them have their illusions about daylight and food on the table next week and, hell, maybe in THEIR world, these things exist.  But not in mine, no.

I gotta go for a minute.  I checked my cigars, and they seem to be okay.  I'm gonna smoke one, you know, maybe have a little chai tea, and watch the sun go down on all of this, again.

Okay for now,
Dok

[Richter]

Sometimes, the moments like that come back.  Got nothing else about that though.  Fuck.

[Luna]

Or maybe it's like that last angry word with your girl, twenty five years ago now.  When your mouth opened up, all you had to do was say you loved her, right?  Not so hard.  But when you did, all the butthurt and need to be RIGHT came out, and you could feel the sudden chill, and then you saw her years later, and everyone was friendly, but it still felt like a great big Goddamn portcullis was between you.  And it aint made out of iron, not this gate.  It's made out of choices and years and your own foolishness.  You can't move that, no.

Fuck, Dok...

[Doktor Howl]

It's like wrecking a motorcycle, it's all slow motion and laughter in the halls, and the joke is on you.  Hell, the joke IS you, and the punchline is that you don't know WHAT you are, anymore.  Student, soldier, mechanic, mook, cop, asshole manager and manager of assholes.  I don't even know how to dress anymore, right?  Hmmm...Steel toe boots, hard hat, assault rifle.  Oops, forgot the glasses.  Safety first, don't you know?

You want to grab the fat, complacent bastards and scream in their faces, but you don't know what to say.  What can you possibly tell them that they could process?  They weren't there, they didn't do that, and all that matters is the next U of A Wildcats season.  And fuck it, you're tired, so fucking tired, let the stupid fucking lemmings have their mad dash for the prize.

So you sit in your damn chair on a Sunday night, tomorrow's the 4th, hot damn and pass the fucking ammunition.  You sit so tense you cramp up, and you try to think of what Johnny Cash would do in a situation like yours.

[Richter]

Some of them, you tell, it might get through.  A lot will fail to get it with varying degrees of rude.  Some may smile, and nod.  They'll say they get it, and they understand, but there's really no way to KNOW.  It's like a carbon paper worm inside your brain.  You can run the ribbon and bang on the keys you think spell it out, (because everyone has an old analog typewriter sticking out of their chest.  Manual input, analog style), but you can't be SURE you got the same one into them.  They've got a thousand monkeys trying to send them Hamlets through those typewriters daily.  Miracle anything gets through.  Keys jam on those things, especially when you try to type in an alphabet that will work.  The white-out ribbon is all fucked up also. 
Things get through, sometimes.

I'm off to untense, let my bowels slowly unwind, and the sternutatic pressure evenly recede into multi - Liter farts.  In between these vile foghorn bleets and flapping sphicterial yammers I will heed the sounds of the wind and the underlying quiet beyond that.

[Mesozoic Mister Nigel]

The top of the bottom is a real place, you know... it's in my basement. But only Little Orange knows about it, really. Her friends are down there, or so she says.

For the rest of us, it's our dancing days forever. She laughs and feeds her secret friends, and our hollow eyes track the words across the screen as we lose sight of the things that once made us human. We lose track as the days spin on and the buzzing of the hard drives lulls us into a complacent stupor. We giggle as we think we're trolling but the only output is the titter-tap of our index fingers against the keys typing out LOL, LOL, LOL over and over again in emails to our dying mothers. Sometimes we we get into our cars and drivedrive to the corner store for ten-minute cigarettes and the only thing we know is the hollow sound of the keys, the keysthekeyboard tapping in rhythm with the rollingwheelsmasturbation of our furious loneliness against the driving column.

No  thanks, we say with some, less than appropriate distain to the meth whore at the corner store, no; we have our own drug, and it is the sense of social rejection which brought us and his abused body to the corner of Fremont and Martin Luther King Jr. BLVD, same place same time, wrong place wrong time, one wanting a pack of cigarettes and redemption, the other wanting twenty dollars and absolution, absolvement, dissolvement, dissolution. But we both want the same things, don't we? We both want our dirty minds to be made clean again, clean again, clean.

[Eve Hill]

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