title waving

Asked if this worked, I hesitated. A moment passed; I realized, why I'm hesitating has something to do with the work they have done without me. This is a cause for pause! As if waiting around to be picked, assuming the world would know. Did you call them? I didn't. How did he know then? Assumes cameras are on him constantly. He wears striped pants under black so he might foreclose and no one will recover. A damn cat leaping off the counter.

How did you get this working, with a bore's help?

Deadly and insanely sick. A ceremony. How would something cruel look for us, the artists? We've heard of cruelty. Devise a system that solves for painless cruelty. Indeed, we've got it. Love. Mythmaking lovers, Durrell. Or the other source: drink. It is indeed painful but the entire point is to distract from while enhancing pain, through poetry. The fall into the ravine, not a volcano, in Lowry is likely to ruin the image without alcohol and, it seems, pot. He walked into a marijuana bar in the last 10 pages, and lit a pipe. Someone had offered to light it for him while a Mexican insulted him; the Consul by this point--by any point, really--is hazy enough to mutter that these insults are tiresome: and they are. The Consul seems to die for insulting the way a Mexican was insulting him, for it was strictly the Consul's Englishness that made for the tired old pun. The Mexican spun around, and around. A fly gathering force until the Consul is blasted in the chest--quite a "dingy way to die" is his thought, recognizing the backward thrust as from a gun.

He had just identified it and advised the owner not to use it since it throws off steal shards. Enough land in Geoffrey's body to send him over the volcano's edge and, it would seem, down into it. The screaming faces and burning walls, the finale to his perfect moment--the drunkest clarity of the entire story, or perhaps not: the scene is late, just before his death. This carries finality already, and reminds us that to drink oneself sober is the best route to the bottom: the volcano having been gorged through and exposed in the middle of it, La Sepultura. If the Consul jumps, it will be into that ravine, this is clear. But the jumping is the last mescal, premeditated. One more and that is that, and so, he sips on the final drink. Doesn't quite plunge. He is not a suicide, but a pointless murder, faintly honorable if only for the fact of a fractured, drawn-out insult provoking it.