Panar

I've lost count. Remember when fingers and toes did the score justice? That was a long time ago. There is no way to reconcile what a final number would look like against the endless demand of an ancient drive. Every statistician that has ever dared to make a record of my transgressions found himself genuflecting before a chilling and uncooperative infinitude. All reasons disappear. Spectators want a soothing through line that can be exploited to launch meaningful prevention. You know, some kind of interpretive key. If it were mine to give, you would have it, but there is only the brute reality of my act. Integers are not real anymore. I just do it, and you watch me do it. Guilt has not weakened your viewership. You can melt down your ethical code into a thick moral grease. Nothing will lubricate the speed and friction of my crime. A fire will break out, and when it does, I will not stop. The Mrs. will not part from her elegant ballroom shoes. But Mister, I have found you secretly doting over your expensive cufflinks. Both of you will be consumed. Kindle skicks strun about without a care. I will oxygenate my flame. Then it will feed. Show me your worst. Offer up your very best. The operations of water vapor are no different than that of an entrenched habit. It goes as far as the environment will permit. If you do not contest a peal of thunder, then why resist the outward working of my molecules?