"In psecutione extrema S.R.E. sedebit
Petrus Romanus, qui
pascet oues in mul-
tis tribulationibus :
quibus transactis ci-
uitas septicollis di-
ruetur, & Iudex tre
mêdus iudicabit po
pulum suum. Finis."- st. malachy, attributed.
and so it happens- the rat king whirling around, scattering the faithful about in heaps of fear, screaming in intoxication. the tribulations?- there are always tribulations and it always seems like apocalypse is coming ashore, precariously placed to slide out of your lips like an errant word, a lost thought, a forgotten moment.
they parade the rat king through the village so everyone can have a look- then seal it/them under glass- a pickled punk- the mob frozen in mid-riot.
tails tied together. you are one.
'de labore solis' slips away. but who is 'gloria olivae'?
the tail the rat seems most disturbing.
I thought, gosh, one quick chop with a very sharp razor blade could free them (they can survive fine without a tail). But could they actually then function outside of "the collective?" When I used to write fiction I avoided sci-fi, but this subject has one brewing in my head...