Click on one of the two big boxed words below, which don’t look like links, but are. And that’s one of the few honest things I can tell you.
The first, a bit of this:
The other, a bit of that:
Except that you just went too far; there’s nothing to see down here. Still, as you’ve rather baldly resisted following the above direction, I offer now, in regards to nothing at all:
A fat is running along the railroad tracks. Every night at this time, he is there.
For months it has been this way, immediately before dusk. A human cannonball throwing itself slowly against the sweating Carolina sky. That lone stretch of ancient track connecting the little bit of country between the merging towns.
Brighter would see him almost every night on his way home from work. Brighter saw a lot of things he wished he could have missed. He was a dour Polynesian mistakenly named for the sun.
The running man never seemed to go any faster, or grow any smaller. Every night, his stomach threatened to rise up and knock him beneath the chin, to sever the tongue he panted with, laying him out flat. Maybe that’s what became of him, knocked out by his own bounding excess, since one day Brighter noticed he had just disappeared. But within a month, he was replaced by a new fat man, running along the tracks. The same cycle followed with this one, there and there and there, and then just gone. The third fat man who finally appeared is running still, and Brighter has started going the long way home, afraid this one too might vanish.
Some things are surely signs, and if you don’t see them anymore, then maybe they just don’t mean anything after all.
But so what? Because what you didn’t link to earlier is honestly not like that anyway, maybe. What it’s really gonna be like if you go back and do like you were supposed to is this:
Cassius Cay was a big ol’ man
With big ol’ dreams
And some big ol’ hands
He’d hit you right where your money stands
And it wouldn’t stand for long
No, it wouldn’t stand for long
Bested Liston, leveled Quarry
Then Frazier came and changed the story
Till he took down Foreman
Rumble, rumble
That all you got, George?
Glory, Ali, glory
Human drama! Pride spattered like a Pollock painting, blood splashed all over everything! Some flashy language to make the sticky life-stuff flow! Wham, bam, rock ’em, sock ’em, great goddamn!
Though by now I think you can again guess that it’s probably not gonna be like that either. I don’t think.
Now go back to the top and click a link. It’s surely bound to be like something.