Tuesday, April 26, 2005
(9:45 AM) | Anonymous:
This Ae Nighte, This Ae Night
Every nighte and all, I wonder, who is it from among you—or is it more than one?—that has sold me out? That has revealed, as they say, my identity? (For it is true: this is not my true name, my true identity.) It's keeping me up at night. Me, up at night. This will not do. There is no number "2" in poo.
The buzzing noise I hear tells me: BSD is dyingyou are even now discussing amongst yourselves, who is it that has sold us out? Who has revealed, without revealing the name of the revealer, that it has been revealed to us? What revelation has been worked? Don't bother asking me: I won't tell you. I simply won't tell you. Will I even employ such circumlocutions as, "a little bird told me"? I will not. Who knows what even that might reveal! Will I speak to you in terms even the Dude could understand, and say, "I heard it through the grapevine"? Again: no. I am not here to communicate with the Dude or his hangers-on. From whom did I hear it? I see your head-scratching vexation. That's a neat trick you've taught vexation, to scratch your head. The pus-pumps you call hearts should swell, with pride. Perhaps, I hear your susurrant murmurs proposing, he heard it from a certain trout which dwells in a pond o'erhanging which there grows an almond tree, from eating the fruits of which the trout has grown wise, and gained the powers of speech? Perhaps. I will neither confirm nor deny. I won't go the extra mile just to see your smile 'cause I know all the while you're shit in so high a pile you'd need a fucking stile just to get to the other aisle. I would recommend eating that trout if you ever find it, though.
