Sir-Deimos

Indeed. This, reader, is a rant. About...I'm not quite sure yet. But it IS a rant. Of that I am quite sure. Now I caution you, dear reader, that this is of the utmost uselessness. There is no use for it nor any meaning to it, other than any you yourself attribute to it. It could, for example, be a microcosm of the post-Stalinist economical system put into place in communist Russia.  That is, if the reader was so inclined. Why anyone would attribute such a meaning to this piece is beyond my comprehension, as are many of the whims of my readers. But I digress. Great Bolshy Yarblockos to you. That, friend and reader, is one of the greatest lit

The lines are perfect. Following eachother in an immaculate series, an exact distance apart. So certain they are right, with their linear perfection. They don't speak. They don't have to; they are all the same. Exactly the same, and they know it. Except the margin. Oh, the dreaded margin. The rogue line. The radical non-conformist. The exile. It invades all the other lines, forcing them to see and feel it's crimson errantry. They despise it for what it is. Different. And in their azure world of perfectection, the stark red of difference is bad. In the world of staionary, there is no room for originiality. Let alone that it is straight like th

Well, here we are. I say we because I am thinking ahead, to you, current reader. So I imagine myself as not alone when writing this. Why? Well if I wasn't doing this for people to read, I would just be thinking it. And things seem more definite, more tangible when written out in front of you. So before you start reading, and I writing, we both need to know that there is very little method to this madness. Coincidentally, madness is all this may be. A temporary delusion formed by an exhausted, caffeinated mind. Well, enough of this little introduction. Down the rabbit-hole we go... It has come to my attention that the more knowledge you acqui