I dunno I reckon we’ll name it Thanatopsis

My horoscope said that I might be tempted to explore life’s darker side today. It also said that wasn’t a good idea.

I had a woman come into the shop the other week. She wanted to get tattooed and wanted to film the entire process, but she wanted no pigment put into the skin. She wanted, in her own words, merely blood lining. Having no tattoos of her own, and having no friends who were tattooists, I was immediately left wondering where she had gotten a hold of what is generally considered tattooists slang.

“How many orphans have to die, Jonny?”

“How many puppies have to be killed before I get another piece from you?”

Ducks are what we are concerned with today. Ducks belong to the Antidinae, or Antinidae, or Antidie, what ever family of waterfowl. Ducks are so anti-die that they’ll even roger a corpse. Even more so, they’ll give no concern to the gender of the corpse either. How do we know this? Because certain things are irrevocably true. One truth is that Ducks, when cooked well, are yummy. Another truth is that homosexual necrophilia is a common occurrence in Mallard ducks.

See, I reckon that letter writing is alright. It’s the only way in which you can convey a large piece of information without being burdened by having to explain external factors. Half of me jokingly says it’s kinda like being inside that boundary line where quantum physics ends, and regular physics begins. You’re operating within a limited time, where all the events around you don’t matter. They’re still there, but their relevance is limited for the duration of the letter.

We’re talking about Iron. The most stable element in the universe. Everything below iron on the atomic chart is fusible, gathering pieces and working its way up the scale towards iron. Everything above iron is fissible, breaking itself apart and working its way down the scale towards iron. That alone is worth a ponder.

“Where’s my story Jonny?” Mad Dog says as he grabs me by the arm. “You said that you were going to have a story for me by the weekend.”

“Chillax,” I says to him.

“It’s not even half six on a Sunday evening. There’s still time. Or even better, is it too late to tell you I lied?”

“Yes, it is.”

My muse walked into the shop the other day. It was the first time she’d been into the new place. I’ve only been there since the middle of February. That’s not much time at all on the scale of things. Her timing was perfect; for she is, after all, my muse.