November 11, 2012 194
It seems that your luck has run out, and now it is time to face the consequences for your illegal activities. Boy, o boy! they dished out a righteous beating when they finally caught you! Some would complain it was too brutal, at least until they were told what you had done.
The uneven ringing in your ears is caught on an ugly rhythm of percussive thumping in your concussed skull, the pounding beat accompanied by weak exterior instrumentation, all playing too softly, too softly. What few snatches of melody reach into your brain are quickly lost; it’s just a lot of bad muzak on a tempo too slow, too slow. The whole soundtrack would be an annoyance if there was any sense in you.
You can’t help but just smile dumbly for everyone, even if no one smiles back. Hard to tell if they did anyway. Everything is over-exposed, images flashing, blurred shapes collapsing into each other, white spots, black spots, heavy lines.
“Fucking hate motherfucking Baudrillard,” you say. Or think. Or think. Or say.