12.

It had been raining for forty days and night in Scotland, or so it seemed, it was not a heavy rain, it was an incessant drizzle, to lighten your heart, the sound of roadwork’s wafting in the little wind, a damp and foul smog had risen from the firth of forth, lurking like some recalcitrant miscreant mirage of a mist like murk, now sunshine to speak off, just enough to make you sweat, and cough.

He wondered why he needed to smoke another cigarette, he knew that it made him cough, in reflection; he did not understand his consumption that was his suffering, the grey face cursing at one another, and scowling.

The felt upon his magic tree stunk in particular of some pernicious chemical contention, of ethers brewed in labs by pale autisms’ and cold sociopaths, it blended particularly well with the smoke, and the stale mush of old fag ends and farts, which he did not notice as it followed him around and permeated as he stood, now that these places actually smelled of what it had five hundred years ago before the contraption of this his morbid perfume.

He needed to drink to wash down the phlegm, he had to break the phlegm to smoke, so he drank, he needed to stay awake, he needed to be lively at the opportunity to go over and introduce himself, and he sipped his red bull, his mad eyes staring into the distance, as the need to impart mendacity overtakes him, when the dominance he craves is given a chance to extrovert, so what is his silent routine, he paces from bar to door, to drink and smoke, and stand apart and wait.

He waits for nothing, sitting here, watching, he takes a can of lynx deodorant out and sprays himself under his clothes, he has been sleeping in his car for five days, his bleary eyes straggle to some deeper malaise, to which to content his every waking hour with a misery and distrust and dislike, and always thinking he sees these people too clearly, more shallow, or just acting like something because they want to be somebody, just like him.

This is a dark and damp lit city at night, it is a place of shadows, and where the close narrows, ghosts gathers, lurking in the skyline alongside the falafel boutiques were the crags, the whispers of circumstances past, it is a failure on his part to ever really engage, to even diagnose, refuse, find refuge in the gallows, and the gutter had taken him, greeted him in the morning for the very first time, he had grimaced and smiled, he knew that the grim gloom was only offset by the nectar gloop, drunkenness can only be appreciated in a torpid biblical Morningside Monsoon inflicting death by way of a thousand cuts, a million splashes of rain, the sun takes the edge of all the arseholes, the rain brings out the inner garrulous dimness of these mental assassins, in that they act as a soporific, draining you of all energy and then denying you sleep, gurning and grinning at each other as if they were concocting a migraine for his benefit.

In the horrible stinking little public houses where men, or even ghosts, such is their sleight grip on life, the cripples and the broken gathering to drink and smoke themselves at last to some rest. The ornate houses their steps raised to keep them clean from the effervescence of mound upon moaned of horse dung, as the sodden Iron clattered on the cobblestones next to the Gardens which they kept under lock and key, a jail for nature and seldom did they ever venture out into its loveliness, for theirs was an aesthetic of puritanical cleanliness, away, separated by a great chasm from the pit of the poor and the mounds of shite, and that was the most pleasant stink, stained into the stones the reek of the shite of all the old people, and that concoction tattooed into the Black stone gave life to spirits and never stronger than now, for they could sense, in all the affairs of the great humanists, the ancient people of Scotia debated in heaven, and they knew now that this was the time, they had talked to the Indian Chiefs, the great rain dance, the giant spaghetti monster on Jupiter where all the ghosts knew that every jellyfish was a human soul, and that they fed on our brainwaves and that humans fed on their brain waves in order to be able to sense, that this cogent tangent, this possibility, that Biology is by its first assumption of rational thought in all purports – Widely Varied.

Through 300 hundred human generations they had not seen one animal change into another, they had seen shorter animals, larger animals, unless seeping radiation was a directed force that changed randomly, for all change needs an engine, and in the infinite variety of possibilities that this could not be something that could, and is likely as Gold changing to Lead, or a Monkey into a Man. The ghosts of this world were agreed that they were spirits, and they still remained, not of this physical earth but part of its light, its form, existed still to tell, because some here remembered them, and this allowed them some mark upon the world

They had tried for over a thousand years in this very building, they had built their false knowledge over a thousand years, and to disguise their philosophy behind the language of reason, to place sophistry at the heart of experimental discipline, and to then advocate this as some sort of false religion like some ancient Druid proclaiming the new greatness of the war-like man who’s nature was to dominate, and to understand this, would this provide an inoculation against its implicitly.

It is a fair thing to realize that the truth, to know the truth is not perhaps always the best thing to tell these people, to remind them that they are vicious animals, do you not remember us, you must remind them they are saints, you must always tell them to be better, and then you will have a nicer society.

You may want all the fucking idiots to go around with an implicit knowledge that they were once Monkeys, that they have an excuse to act like Monkeys, and whether or not they were Chimps, is their not a danger that people may start observing chimps and acting like them, in order to satiate some desire to know their true self’s.

Would it not be better for them to think themselves somehow better, would they not act more morally if they are instructed so?

Brother Dab Kilns you have your societies, now hush!!!

The ghosts agreed they could smell it, their time was close