They had been boning up for this for up to several what were they called units of time sometime prior to the current how do you say of can't remember while they had been having been less broken up (except for the routine fracture worming its way) over more things distressing and read and skipped over all the little detailed pulverizing happening on the microscopic level while the macroscopic wiped the usual crust from the eyes that tired of the latest drift of land making space for more others to tumble into the bottom of their final frontier.
Qualmberger: Where do you suppose the last turn will take us?
Dearthton: Based on the navigational patterns of the depreciating minds steering our typical discourse, not to a very useful point.
Nadirloop: I most certainly do concur with that, but I think Qualmberger is asking about a geographical turn rather than a topical one.
Dearthton: But we were not discussing anything in the proximity of geography.
Qualmberger: And since no one has mentioned it for many portions of an age, I have yet to be able to locate any of our inscriptions.
Nadirloop: Is that due primarily to inability or illegibility?
Vexedmoore: I would invite us to consider that no one has taken into account the possibility of reference to a turn of a topographical nature.
Nadirloop: I most certainly do concur with that, but I think it had more to do with what I thought of as an insightful retort the other day and can't for the life of me recall what it was.
Qualmberger: How many times have we told you to write things down?
Dearthton: I confess that I have conformed to holding the fire hose of that message for many a defensive reaction as well as a thoroughly shred pair of trousers and I have come to the conclusion that when it comes to writing things down that the more one expresses oneself the more one's words work their way down the page down the ladder down the sewer down to a deeper burial.
Vexedmoore: Could be worse. One could end up prey to a brain-eating amoeba.
Nadirloop: My sister's mother died of a brain-eating amoeba.
Dearthton: And she was very obsessive-compulsive about making lists.
Qualmberger: Why do you say your sister's mother when you could just as easily say mother.
Vexedmoore: His sister could have a different mother.
Nadirloop: No. I insist on doing that to create a resentful distance.
Qualmberger: My difficulty finding any of our inscriptions is probably a result of failing eyesight as well as an unsteady hand.
Dearthton: Are you talking about the graffiti we've made on these pieces of wood that give their weakening support to our shaky ranks?
Vexedmoore: Our rank asses you mean.
Dearthton: I'll be the first to admit that if one follows the trail of the smoking gun it leads right back to my fuming butthole. At our decrepit age we can have our marring of nature just as much if not more than that petulant lot of whipper-snappers. The old invented graffiti before the young of today were soiling ourselves. Must you really have to keep bringing up some existential investigation of "inscriptions"?
Dearthton: That's not the word I was looking for. What is it when you're trying to do something and it comes out meaning something worse?
Vexedmoore: I don't think that's what you're getting at.
Dearthton: Of course not. That's exactly what I'm getting at. What I'm saying is an example of a case in point. Like this morning, I was trying to set up my dog's new bag of food and I was trying to pour the old bag into the new one and there were pockets of little old dried kibbles stuck up in the nooks and crannies of the old bag and as I tried to work them out they kept dropping at unexpected intervals onto unwanted coordinates such as any other part of the garage outside the new bag of dog food or into just about every opening in my head: my eyes, my ears, my nostrils, and one even landed in my mouth. With all this technology one would think that after putting people in their proper place we could put things in theirs. It was like I was cleaning out some orifice of some larger thing with a big grin on its face the face of my misfortune like I was getting hit with its uneaten food or the lint from its bellybutton or if it seemed wasted and insulting enough as embodied in the piece that landed in my mouth yet another remark expelled from its crapper hole. I spit it out though into the new bag. Putting things where they belong after the fact after the aftermath with my face all hot with anger and my hands shaking. The steadiest hands have been reserved for the best shell games.
Vexedmoore: I most certainly do concur with that, but I still don't think that's what you mean at all. You're talking about when someone is trying to make something sound better than it really is.
Nadirloop: Oh, yes. What is the word for that?
Qualmberger: Is someone listening to a composition for large orchestra with a great deal of passages for doubled sections of trombones?
Vexedmoore: None of us has a portable working sound system anymore. Can't even remember the last time one of us shared a poignant sequence.
Dearthton: What are all these bones lying around our bench?
Nadirloop: People bring them to the park to play fetch.
Vexedmoore: In fact, none of us has a sound portable working system anymore.
Dearthton: I think what you think you're hearing Qualmberger is not the pronouncements of orchestral instruments upon digesting a composer's notes, but denouncements from archaic sphincters exhausted from cheese, white bread, bananas, celery, broccoli, and cream of wheat.
Qualmberger: I think that you think I am thinking that the contra-bass quality of the trombone is even vaguely comparable to the sonorities of the irresolute flatulence of our languid quartet.
Vexedmoore: In further fact, none of us has anymore an imperturbable demeanor for working with an unsound system anymore.
Dearthton: These are not dog bones.
Nadirloop: There seems to be no end to exhausting how we continue to share in one another's exhaust.
Qualmberger: I think that you think that what we all think about all day long is thinking about the end.
Vexedmoore: None of us have an end of perturbation nor medication for making an end of it let alone a go of it.
Dearthton: This looks like a thigh bone.
Nadirloop: Well, don't look at me. It's not one of mine. I have all my original bones. Not a single buckle or break clean or otherwise.
Vexedmoore: Qualmberger should be one to talk when he's been wearing headphones all this time.
Qualmberger: (holding up the cable) Look here, see? It doesn't go anywhere.
Nadirloop: Then why are you wearing them?
Qualmberger: My ears are cold and I turned my closet and trunk in the bedroom inside out looking for my earmuffs.
Vexedmoore: When did you manage to come up with 2 months' down and 3 months' security?
Qualmberger: All right, I turned my refrigerator box upside down trying to find my old pair of earmuffs. Are you happy?
Dearthton: Haven't been for in can't remember.
Vexedmoore: On behalf of the rest of us, I most certainly do concur with that, but why bother keeping all that cabling attached?
Nadirloop: Must be one of those sets that comes with the 20-footers. Seems excessive. I'd continually knock over coffee cups and get it tangled in the phone and the blender if I wandered around with them on. Of course, it's not an issue in a refrigerator box. Silver lining in the dampened cardboard if you know what I mean. I'll be damned if I can remember that word for trying to put a more polished spin on something.
Qualmberger: I thought the cord might come in handy when I really felt like offing myself.
Dearthton: You're too feeble to climb up any of the trees in the park.
Qualmberger: That doesn't seem to blossom into anything practical. By the time I make it to the park I'm overcome with that sort of anesthetized sensation and I mostly don't give a shit about anything. One gets fed up with waiting for the coughing up enough blood thing to carry you.
Vexedmoore: Mostly don't give a shit, eh? Is there any part of you that feels more miserable and despairing?
Qualmberger: There is, but I usually experience that as a sinking feeling in my feet concentrated in the ankles.
Nadirloop: And then how does it manifest itself?
Qualmberger: Then the physiology of the sinking sensation ends up discharging through the holes in my socks.
Dearthton: Should I dare ask if you have another pair?
Qualmberger: You already did and I've haven't been able to change this pair for in can't remember.
Vexedmoore: Maybe you can switch the socks or rearrange the front parts of them in your boots so the holes don't line up with your ankles.
Qualmberger: Look, I appreciate what you're all trying to do, but I thought maybe when this thing starts up again you could all help me tie the cord to the back and if the cable is durable enough and holds out it might break my neck.
Nadirloop: What starts again?
Qualmberger: The truck.
Vexedmoore: What truck?
Qualmberger: The truck our park bench is in the back of with all the bones piled around our rotted feet?
Nadirloop: I must conclude that I most certainly do concur with that now that you bring it up, but won't a 20 foot headphone cord get caught in something else possibly botching a well thought out plan?
Vexedmoore: After all those turns and mixed signals we've been going nowhere. Any clues to what place this is?
Qualmberger: Look around for a street, landmark or something.
Dearthton: There's a stop sign. Now we're getting somewhere.
Vexedmoore: (holding up another bone) This looks like one of those smaller pieces in the middle of the foot. What are they called? The lateral cuneiform, I think. If these bones are human like Dearthton suggests.
Dearthton: Reminds me of when I broke my left foot kicking my last lawn mower. Haven't got an original bone in my body.
Nadirloop: Reminds me of that word I can't think of. On the tip of my tongue. The one where you try to make something distasteful seem more agreeable.
Qualmberger: Fucking euphemism.
While they had been having been less broken up (except for the routine fracture worming its way) over more things distressing and read and skipped over all the little detailed pulverizing happening on the microscopic level while the macroscopic wiped the usual crust from the eyes that tired of the latest drift of land making space for more others to tumble into the bottom of their final frontier. Sometimes wheels that turned stopped many times as it turned out turning out what has never ceased to be turned out and thrown out to search many times for wheels that turned and ended up stopping always for turning out one anothers without a turn or one anothers given another turn at being turned out or taken out many times added to many times times many times multiplied by nothing for it had been having been less broken up (except for the routine fracture worming its way) over more things distressing and read and skipped over all the little detailed pulverizing happening all the time sometimes many times times many times multiplied by nothing for it had been having been less broken up (except for the routine fracture worming its way). Worming its way. Its way.
- Max Stoltenberg