Jakob wrote:Igor snapped out of a dream about latex puppets which he was sure he hadn't really been having. He vomited, filled a glass of hot water and salt and let it run through his mouth as if it was some nice whiskey. Resting his hands on the sink for a while, leaning forward, breathing, wondering where that filthy plastic had entered his mind. He almost fell asleep standing there and woke up by nearly falling down and causing some cling clanging of the pots and pans. He then put on his socks and went to sit on the couch, staring at the black window into the night which he invited to stare back into him.
As he did, a faint glow began to show at the edges of the whimsical frame.-working it's way toward the blackness of his orbs, thinking that the darkness of them was not the result of the deep stare, but had a blackness of it's own.
As his yet sleep ridden eyes looked for the anticipated dawn, the birth of the eye of the tiger , who was really HER, the vision of beauty , now reduced through the year, of a cat, the green eyes of the monster of whom years ago he would vouch for body and soul.
She remembers his brother , the duplex extraordinaire, who actually tried to stop her from such absurd and strange regenerecy, that most nowadays judged rather, as a vicious form of feline degeneracy.
How that proud tiger one time au passant in the middle of a sustained dark night of the soul, excommunicated, he tried to cheer up, saying don't give up to the only venue that offers a slim chance of redemption, assert Yourself , and stick with it, through sticks and stones hurled about?
Why? Who knows but one thing sure,
Someone may come along. Some day, Some how, who will come and holding his burning heart high above the platoons following, will claim some merit in the quest for victory.
This battle was lost, but the war raged on. There are no unconditional surrenders, only that of lazy gods living in the waning light of Walhalla.