For example; on this side of the daytime, the fictional example-subject written ‘bout in the book by the most holy Simply Duane, notices all is essentially empty. This, then, he also sprach, but this time doctor, a little bit differently; then the panicked mind will, 1. Assume that the real and fictional example-subject is dead, and, 2. Because the mind has been wired by the creator to be in Garden of Eden mode, it must do what is right, which, 3. Is to catch up with itself, and be dead and, 4. Take the fictional example-subject down dead, top to toes, and, that. That does explain. Does sure, and sure explain, many mysterious historical cases of sudden death. The sins of Adam and Eve—who were sure and sure wired to behave in the blissed-out perfected faux-environment of their Garden of Eden—threw them sure, and sure sure and sure out of the garden, into an imperfect world, for which they were sure, and sure ‘nuff, non-wired. And that. Dear Grandson. Is sure, and sure sure and sure the cause of. Spontaneous death. Also, put differently. All incurable illnesses. Mental illness of every kind. And the need for—and this deserves to be put even more differently—trucking companies sure and sure. Truck drivers. The clothing industry sure, sure, and sure—the entire transportation industry. The need to char food to make it edible, for sure. Piano moving free-lancers. The need to work at any job at all, for pay. The notion of pay. Of war. Coffee. Hashish. Sure, and sure. Sure and sure, and—as she and the trillion but probably far less yes people setting down faces set into wide open fat studybooks, the generation of which is likewise, yah, yah, necessitated by the sin-n-n-n of the first couple in that Garden they’d been handed, but the why is itself—buried deep in the pages of—yet more fat studybooks, offering explanations of why. Why, oh, why? When they had been handed everything? The first couple had screwed up and got fired from the ultimate do-nothing high-pay set-for-life jobs, eckeckduhduh-h-h-h-h-h—b-b-b-b-ut had they only stayed in the Garden, wring your hands for them class, wring, wring, your hands for them—these and those and all the other heavy fat studybooks would never have been written—as a matter of fact, the book itself would never have been invented because why have books in the Garden of Eden, and—yes tear your hair, beat your breasts, bite your lips bloody, for them and for them and for—so—the screaming priest—part time theology teacher—that day got dragged off the podium, tightly straightjacketed by two bearded big burlies, and whisked away for re-education, and possibly something better which the proper medication, salved over him the proper number of years, would bring him fat-back out ‘o his world of delusion, and. There he’d be picking up in his Garden of Eden again—his very own personal one. To boot.
Jim Meirose’s short work has appeared in numerous venues, and his published novels include Le Overgivers au Club de la Résurrection (Mannequin Haus), Understanding Franklin Thompson (JEF pubs), and Sunday Dinner with Father Dwyer (Optional books). Info at: www.JimMeirose.com @jwmeirose