A Place
A Place
I know a place that is very nice to visit.
At the door there is a turnstile and it clutches at you silver with its tripedal arms and when you force your body through it purrs and you are prideful that you got your body through and so you smile.
There is a looking pool after that into which you look and see yourself decrepit and about to fall down and you laugh because you are not decrepit and you are not about to fall down.
There, then, comes a row of inquisitors with clutching hands and take away your personal effects muttering to themselves about personal effects and you whisper to your friends “this is silly”, because they are unable to take you away from you and that is the most personal effect of all and so at this juncture knowing grins are exchanged.
Finally you are given bright pink currency in vast quantities and on which inflation has no effect, and you spend this money in vast quantities and on which inflation has no effect at a small kiosk made of ice blocks taped to large fans. At this kiosk they measure your shoulders and your cranium and they fit you with a third arm capable of doing and achieving everything at which you have failed. The arm they attached to me was tailored to my whims and acted accordingly of its own accord. I could not have been happier with the various things it did for me and they thought remains that perhaps I could not be happier at any other point in my life, whether or not that point lies in the previous portion of said life or lurks in the spaces that remain.