(+6 shoepoints, 6 votes)
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A wearisome burden, my heart heavy in its bony cage. But see now! Brow furrowed, lips swallowed with the stoicism born of a hundred toilsome nights. I know this is right. I know this is the natural product of my logos, and worth any price paid in motility or glamor. I’m on to something pure, something real. This is it.
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I need you to know me. I need you to understand what animates me, what obliges me to indicate via pugnacious gustatory display the horror I am experiencing, right now. Looking at the tenantless vacuity where your digital heart ought to be, with my own looking on, solicitous, I need you to imagine my interior world, stripped bare of vanity, longing to hear your final confession.
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“Grim overlord of affliction, grant me your favor on this most extraordinary of days. In my epoch of ascendancy, behold: the triplestacked acme of my industry. In Your name, and apportioned solely to Your purpose, until the lakes of this foul globe run crimson with the blood of your enemies. Benedictus qui venit in nomine Luciferi. Hosanna in excelsis.”
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They mock us with laughter, these enchanting harlots. Mock our doctrine, our determined attempts to acquaint them with its glory. Until at last we trudge wearily on, crestfallen and atrabilious, still compelled by this yearning to free the world and thereby ourselves from the superincumbent knowledge we share. Yet take heart! Ought we not to rejoice collectively on a scale scarcely imaginable when the hardened shoe-loather repents and turns to us? Is not the admission of a single soul to our congregation worth each and every hardship and privation?
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A Daedalean puzzle. Are we to challenge or merely to observe the challenge? And what allusional intent informs the presence of the Continental palliative? Will it actualize our amauroticism or is it present simply to indicate that nel vino la verità?
Wherever such verisimilitude inheres, we can be assured of one thing: the boundless wisdom of Asia will never be lost us so long as this solemn, ersatz caniform stands cerberus.
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A strange marriage that ChatToText asks us to make. As groom, our shoe: elevated, dignified, eleemosynary; as bride, an advertisement: vulgar, proselytising, sterile. And yet who are we to judge their accommodation of each other? If a bird and a fish fall in love, where else but here, in our catholic embrace, might they find their Shangri-la?