Suicide is a word mixed with blood. Suicide is blood beyond all words.
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Oh hello. I did not expect anyone to burrow this far. Most just spiralize. They chase around a goose that is wild and drift away in disappointment. They stare at a fun crusty old mask of bits and bobs glued and stitched and pressed into place trying to discern what is says. The eyes. The eyes.
You didn’t burrow? Just stumbled? Well, to stumble is to fall to fall is to leap to leap truly is to fly.
Now that you are here would you like to stay awhile? You are most welcome. It is dark and dry and cozy and quiet. Come freely go safely is what I always say.
I am just sitting down for a cup of hot tea with a slice of lemon. Would you like to join me? I have only one cup and one saucer and one slice of lemon that is enough for what hot tea I have but we can share. You hold the saucer and I will have a sip of the hot tea with a slice of lemon perched on the lip of the cup of the hot tea one leg dangling into the pool of tea that is hot with lemon in it. Then I will pass the cup to you and you hand me the saucer that I will hold so you can drink the juice from the slice of lemon drawn down to mix in the hot tea sea below. We can follow these steps back and forth until the tea and the juice of the leg of the lemon are drunk, drank, drunken (?) by us.
But wait, you are the guest. You start with the cup of hot tea with a splayed slice of lemon and I will hold the saucer. Then when you have had a sip of the black bitter tea with the bright zip of lemon you pass it over to me and here is the saucer for you to hold.
Before you take a sip I almost forgot. I was going to add a swizzle of honey to the cup of hot tea with a slice of lemon. Hold the cup and saucer while I swirl in the honey so we can add a touch of sweetness to the tang and the bitter tea in a hot cup with a slice of lemon and a drizzle of honey.
That smell? That smell is the smell of fresh baked bread cooling on the counter. Soon there will be a thick slice of bread baked fresh and cooled but still warm so a pat from a pound of butter churned over there in the corner will melt and spread and soak into the pores of the bread sliced thick and warm.
That other smell that now mingles with the fresh baked bread and the wafting up from a cup of honey and lemon hot tea with a slice of lemon and a swizzle of honey? That would be the chowder on the stove. Rich and creamy chowder made from all the goodness of pure chowder being made as we speak.
Would you like to sit down? I have only one chair but it is big enough for both of us. A big leathery chair made from the faux of a beastly beast stretched all around for comfort. If we arrange ourselves each leaning back against one of the luxurious rolled arms decorated with nailhead trim we can relax with a cup of hot tea with a slice of lemon and a swizzle of honey while the bread cools and the soup simmers.
Now tell me, why are you here? Were you searching for the true idea of suicide up above — the eidos (chuckle) of suicide — and you stumbled in even if you did not burrow down?
Yes, this was the problem. You hunted for the the truth of suicide and did not venture far enough beyond. To suicide beyond suicide. Where is suicide beyond suicide? Suicide beyond suicide is beyond suicide that is suicide. Suicide before being beyond suicide such that beyond suicide before being beyond is suicide. The story is quite simple and straightforward and uncomplicated requiring few words and decent but not perfect spelling. Would you like to hear the story? I am happy to tell it.
Let us settle into this big leathery faux chair. Here, you drink and I will load and I will load while I talk and talk as I load.
Ready?
Ah hem. Hem. Hmm.
Presenting: The story of suicide beyond suicide.
Light clapping