goto Appendx main menu Living a Slow Death...
Darell W. Fields
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Regardless of his complaints about the porch, the "liberals," or the academy, he had to admit that in sum this environment could be described as "comfortable." However, there was a peculiar atmosphere in this place that could only be defined as silence. Not only a silence of the spoken word ("No double-talking allowed!"), but a silence that went to the very core of the mind itself. He had always thought that if he could only speak with individuals crossing the threshold, meaningful conversations would emerge. Although he was persistent in taking the first step, he was always disappointed when his comments were returned with flat and rehearsed responses, as if a bad actor were reading a bad script. 

Theseus could give a damn about these others, but had become very fearful that this silence had begun to creep into his own mind. He had heard of a degenerative condition, peculiar to his own species, which can best be described as "a monkey with a monkey on its back." He had seen several colleagues slip into this psychosis, never to return. Some argued that the degeneration was hereditary, while others believed it to be a by-product of living in the environs of the porch. In any case, he dreaded the thought of this happening to his own mind, and the thought of it bent him further. It was a horrible demise for the afflicted porch monkeys. They wereAppendx 2 page break 11 | 12 reduced to something just above nothing, all of them muttering for days on end, in some padded single-family residence somewhere:  "The master's tools cannot destroy the master's house." 

He realized that he was hearing voices from the inside of his skull shouting:  "Fuck the tools! Fuck the house! What about the goddamned porch!" He wondered if his colleagues had heard these screaming whispers at the very beginning of their own illnesses. He knew if he were to shout these taunting verses out loud he would be pummeled immediately by the "conservative" authorities, which also happened to be buzzards. They would swoop down on him and those things he wanted to proclaim. They would drop a bag on his head and the dudes with the white coats, white caps, and no discernable faces would take him away. "Oh yeah . . . all those sonofabitches were in on it together!" He shouted these words aloud, only saying them to page

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