Power Corrupts

Oh, no, you first, I'm right behind you - power corrupts.

And then BAM! a weight like a massive stone descending on its sunken chest, disrupting the FA Cup semi on the biggest screen available in this awkward sanctity, it's gauche decor with some really shoddy lighting ensconced in a musty old basement, with cobwebs hanging in every corner heavy with dust.

It's the space preserved for the winner's history. A lonely place, one adorned with all the self perpetuated trophies and thoughtless certificates of award to and from it's own image given away like toothpicks at one of those tawdry, low-buck functions, virtues described in a fiction by Louis L'amour, ineffectual and moot. All in all, and one after another, they demarcate the unintended consequences born of a self congratulatory, good old boy board of directors.

A republic, like any other that stood before it, it hasn't spoken to its insufferable spouse for days on end.

As it falls, in slow motion impossibly ridiculous for its sheer, dead weight and fathomless hubris, an arrested scream remains unresolved, stifled in its throat. But for the epiphany of knowing it's too late - there it hangs suspended for what seems an eon, then head first into its plate of beans and sausage, dead dead dead.

the full moon declines
and then
the next morning of spring
春の翌朝、満月の辞退