The Mislaid Deck: Card 85 – The Crossroads.


The Mislaid Deck: Card 85 – The Crossroads.

New Doc 23_55

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The Mislaid Deck: Card 85 – The Crossroads.


The Mislaid Deck: Card 85 – The Crossroads.

New Doc 23_55

View On WordPress


He wakes up. It is cold. Why is it cold? It was hot just the other day. It is summer. It should not be cold. It should be uncomfortably hot. Instead it is cold. He does not know why. He gets up. He makes some Moroccan mint tea and adds some honey. It is refreshing and it by its nature it freshens him. He tries to write. He fails. The cat wants to open the door. He tries to ignore the cat. The cat…

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He wakes up. It is cold. Why is it cold? It was hot just the other day. It is summer. It should not be cold. It should be uncomfortably hot. Instead it is cold. He does not know why. He gets up. He makes some Moroccan mint tea and adds some honey. It is refreshing and it by its nature it freshens him. He tries to write. He fails. The cat wants to open the door. He tries to ignore the cat. The cat…

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Another Day.


He wakes up. It is cold. Why is it cold? It was hot just the other day. It is summer. It should not be cold. It should be uncomfortably hot. Instead it is cold. He does not know why. He gets up. He makes some Moroccan mint tea and adds some honey. It is refreshing and it by its nature it freshens him. He tries to write. He fails. The cat wants to open the door. He tries to ignore the cat. The cat does not allow this. He gives up writing. He will try again later. Herakles can wait. The cat cannot. He makes a breakfast of fried kale scrambled egg and parmesan for two it is very tasty which he was not expecting. Someone has been arrested for the Mansion Murders. The story is full of all the usual details that strike fear into the dark hearts of the 1% and those who aspire to be the 1%. House invasion. Kidnap. Murder of family and staff. Arson. No safety in one’s own castle. Arm the guards. Hovering missile drones need to be deployed around the castle like a buzzing flying moat of death. He thinks. He sits. He runs on a treadmill. He thinks some more. He watches as journalists barely contain their praise of the Isis propaganda machine. It is an odd thing to see. At some point he watches Red Nose Day. It is the first American red nose day. It will probably be the last. It is lifeless anodyne boring vapid lacking character missing the live quality of the British version missing the sense of community inclusiveness of the British version it takes place in a cavernous studio. There is an audience but the laughter seems canned. Maybe the audience are mannequins or the poor forced to work in order to receive foodstamps. They will sit but pride stops them from laughing at a Seth Meyers who is dwarfed by the gargantuan set. All the mistakes are coreographed and as such die before they begin. Al Roker breathes life into the dead room but then life leaves when he does. Jane Krakowski does the same. He shouldn’t care so much about this so he stops. It will probably make more money in one day than the British one has made in its entire 30 year history. Such is the death of empire being born in the shell of a one powerful country to then move and live on the hide of a Leviathan. He goes to sleep.

Another Day.


He wakes up. It is muggy. The air is thick like tar. It is unpleasant. Boats of migrants roam the oceans without food or water. No one wants to help them. Europe wants to wage war on them. Asian countries push them back  out into the sea. It is hell. All of it is hell. Then the Philippines agrees to take in migrants. This is a good thing. Well done The Philippines. Then he has a ginger tea. He…

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Another Day.


He wakes up. It is muggy. The air is thick like tar. It is unpleasant. Boats of migrants roam the oceans without food or water. No one wants to help them. Europe wants to wage war on them. Asian countries push them back  out into the sea. It is hell. All of it is hell. Then the Philippines agrees to take in migrants. This is a good thing. Well done The Philippines. Then he has a ginger tea. He…

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Another Day.


He wakes up. It is muggy. The air is thick like tar. It is unpleasant. Boats of migrants roam the oceans without food or water. No one wants to help them. Europe wants to wage war on them. Asian countries push them back  out into the sea. It is hell. All of it is hell. Then the Philippines agrees to take in migrants. This is a good thing. Well done The Philippines. Then he has a ginger tea. He has not had coffee for a week and a half. His head is clear. He likes his head being clear. He does not trust his head being clear. He is forgetting very simple things. He wants to blame his lack of coffee but he does not think that this is really the reason. He writes some more. He draws some more. He gets angry with a friend because he doesn’t understand the friend is joking then he feels bad about getting angry and he realizes that the anger stemmed from an uncontrollable feeling of guilt that the friend was right he was totally correct in the assumptions he made and in the way he said it even though his friend was making a joke the hard kernel of truth at the centre of the joke hurt him deeply wounded him and the raw wound caused him to lash out in anger so he apologises and the apology is accepted. It makes him feel marginally better. He drinks some Moroccan Mint tea and adds some honey. He enjoys it. A friend pays a surprise visit. It is a delight. He watches the Dances With the Stars Final. He cries a lot even as he realizes how easily his emotions are being manipulated with cheap wizard tricks. He embraces the cheap wizard tricks because weeping makes him, for a time, feel more human. He is delighted that Rumer Willis and Val are the winners. He is more delighted than he should be. He should be spending more time concerned with Important Things and Changing Lives and Making a Difference but instead he is cuddling on the couch watching manufactured tales of triumph. He goes to sleep.