Before, the bill—I'm unsure of its providence—floated around my floor as a sort of novelty—a dainty for the mind—for all of my friends—who (if they aren't maoists per se) are at least fairly anti-capitalist. Now, its semiotic—and literal—elevation has caused the red sun to shine a malevolent glare upon my home; some beast or bogart or poltergeist has awoken in white wrath and smote my man in biblio.
My copy of the little red book—now floorbound—is now a haunting synecdoche of my waxing liberalism—principally the 3rd, 5th, and 12th types—and the over-indulgence of my just-find-me break from active political life.
the only really ironic thing in this post is the affected writing style. I did originally have a (tasteful) portrait of him that I put some more art underneath and then my copy of the red book. My dollar was elevated. The book did fall. Just thought I could milk it for a bit.
Hmm, classic MZD-band roving proletarioplasmic entity with vengeful characteristics. Only one way to dispel it: landlord blood.
