Happy Monday!

There's Chocolate Babka in my cube, the only regular solid with which you can be square.  It's melting in its tin brought in by the old woman in a babushka while assholes gather round and push her out of the way, to the ground, stinking carpet.  It smells like a hamster cage over there, you know.  Rotting flesh baked on purpose with the inside face of this chocolate babka - the old woman crawls away, cackling to herself while you pathetic frumps pull on your business casual and choke yourself with the almighty black crumbs of her chocolate babka.  She lived more life in one summer of her youth than you fools see in a decade of yours......the pigeons encircling you waiting for their piece, shit on your head and bless you with their sympathy every single second.  She has no sympathy for any of you.  Someone clutches their loins and heads for the bathroom yet again, another their head mumbling something about "not agreeing with me" (life doesn't agree with you my dove, take the express train to the basement, and look for your name on the morgue calling cards.......there's always room for one more, honey), others puking up the sharp bits which they just couldn't swallow and take into themselves.  But there's no need - She see you're all already here.  Early to the party, to pass around the germs in your toilet seat souls...fill your faces, mmmmmm doesn't that sugar make you feel good? All chubby and loved inside, like you wish they loved yo- no, but wait, what is there to do when it runs out again........club each other to death seems the only option, set yourselves on fire before that babka can pass through you as you have passed through your lives- untouched and unleavened.  A society of the fallen souffles....how marvelous, she thinks as she re-ties her gypsy bells on her skirt, which she's worn every single day since that summer none of you will ever see, and she walks out quietly, stepping gingerly and with care (for the stride of her footsteps, not for your carved out, bloated bellies face up in the rubble, babka belching at your souls).  Cubes all, fitting perfectly into a giant super cube of an absolute fetishism of normality, and how ugly it looks from the outside in.  She's gone, with her empty pan in hand.  There's always more babkas to make, and always more shaky, slobbering lips in its pursuit.  A job vell done, she says out loud, the chocolate bready aftermath decorating the mouths she escapes past, into the light where they don't know how to shine.

M. Lucia