The Rhyme Virus.
Symptoms include the inability to find synonyms, an obsession with the word “purple” and a debilitating addiction to haiku.
There I said it. I don’t understand haiku.
Anyway, the rhyme virus is spreading beware.
Don’t try and face it, don’t you dare.
It has made many fall, many jump, and none dance.
Into your flesh, it will cut like a lance.
Some times you make very little sense Kro. And this is not age-dependent sense. I am sure that if you get a sample size of ages 2 through 98, not a single person would be able to make sense of this tatti that you write. Not a single one. Not even that cocaine addled grandma with three nipples.
No, not even her.
I think making sense is too overrated man. Why would you want to make sense? And that too all the goddam time? Why? What possible purpose would that serve? Certainly not yours. Making sense would make you predictable, it would make you a conformist. It would make you frightfully easy to snipe as you sat in the coffee shop, sipping on your bulletproof coffee (google that shit please) while sharing your “snap story” (is that a thing?).
You think there would be a hipster murderer? Like that would be his killing style. Only murders hipsters. I guess that would be a slightly lazy murderer, given how easy it is to find them. Hmmm, well maybe not too lazy. Cause they always roam in numbers. Unless you are talking about the lonely hipsters. Those fuckers are always alone. Even in a group of hipsters, the LH will be sitting at a slight distance. Just a hand’s length away. Clearly not identifying with the spirit animal of the Group. With a beard that is just an inch too long. With wayfarers that are just a tint too light.
It wouldn’t be too difficult to lure them out also. Just put a sign outside a warehouse. “Bullet proof coffee. And free wi-fi”
And watch your victims walk in. One by one.
I think that cocaine addict grandma would totally understand this. I really do.
One line for me, aunty.
One line for me.