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It may be that I both lie and truth at all times, and i'm not really on an ordinary street in Seattle with an angry man haranguing the air and the world a couple blocks away. Perhaps this was some sticky paper to trap an incautious observer. This is what i'm thinking as someone bumps into me from behind, knocking me through the doorway of the next shop. I look out and catch just a glimpse of what seems to be a snickering porpoise swimming around the corner. A scrap of paper unflutters at my feet:
Die angry fish spleen Die Die or at least adjust my trousers starch my shirts and pluck my wandering limbs from the icy puddle where the
Hunh. Aquatic mammal guerrilla poetry inflictors. Should try to be more alert. I read the scrap of paper again, wondering if it means something to the author or is just words thrown next to each other. Is there some hidden intellectual level that i'm not seeing in the words and in the method of delivery? Did the porpoise have a purpose? And how the hell does a porpoise write?
Big cities have odd people. And aquatic mammals.
A snickering startles me and the paper scrap is gone from my hand – the porpoise must have circled the block and come up behind me, no doubt predicting that i'd still be standing here with the scrap, unwary as the first time. I should be less predictable. Fine. I shop.