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The Shape of a Parked Car at Lunch

But I have to feed the meter! Yet this email chain has gone subcutaneous. Don’t scratch it,” Walinda barks as she ambles past the plaster wall of the Errors and Transfers cube. Meter is hungry meter is so hunrgy Best, Todd | Maganerial Officer, MBA. She is so long, Walbalinda, and how she ambles, leant back so far, and yet she’s so long, that it seems impossible that her body not merely be like the hour hand of the clock, in other words to say how it can move linear counterclockwise rather than only continually ticking down, down to nearly 3:00. But she is in the anteroom where we sup on chips and what those too-still-alive and angry fish were in cans, where we sup standing-up. There’s no anti-itch cream in here near food, her mien seemed to say, although I did not catch it. Show me everything on the Defective Real Wild Bear file says Todd. He is over next to the other side, the exactly caddycorner anteroom like a. Like a rectangle…cube. I’ve forgot shapes which is only natural when you have not as yet fed the meter and the police Geist sits in your Off/Asleep HP desktop dissolving you, or you independent of he, into your component oils and what are probably like. Canned whole Roma tomatoes, in water. The shape of the can is the shape of something like the anterooms and further the full anteroom line” bisects me diagonally, which the Officer takes to be narcotic as I lay those red eggs, in water. The vertical meter is the shape of something like the rooms. The horizontal car is the same shape, but flipped. The Officer fiddles with his mustache, a jaw harp for the officer I imagine, kindly—but it is Determined! Of course as I follow the diagonaline like a trolley I spill all over. Lunch especially red or in water is to be magnaged and fundamenally Contained Best, Todd | Emperors Liege Todd got promoted to something that is not yet in the binder, promoting the binder therefore to him. All of the no-cream Walindra anteroom talked about it. I can hear, I’m not deaf, I am slow, as slow and stationary as all movement, I am a trolley, I am a trolley to the meter, the anteroom line is my track. I pass everything. It is bring your son to the office month. I smile uneasily—wet and red all over, and still dropping—to the sons who floss with dinosaur mini floss. What flavor?” I speak. Chocolate,” says one. Red,” says another. I have joy. Red, that is me. I am spilling as the meter works in tandem with the Officers’ Union,” I spoke. To take my car apart.” The son with chocolate says who cares, the one with red says who cares. I take wonder: is what I have in respect to the Officer what car’ is, or is it only that there is the meter? Sons floss on both sides. Who cares, they say, but I am gentle to the small. They are innocent of Violations from the Binder. I certainly have V-ed B. I remember Wallace from the no-cream fish can anteroom saying as she went long to an occluded exiting door on one of the other sides, I remember, hey,” and all stopped to hear, who the fuck ain’t!” Even the sons laughed, it was like the Globe Theater in there for one of William Shakespeare’s pornographies, or they weren’t yet because this was the month before last but in theory. Todd rushed to my window. It locks from the outside. No key. I said this with my mouth, my lower lip a bit out, so I didn’t spill Roma more from the mouth. It’s urgent!” He was screaming like a zoo animal! The meter is sick, the meter starves, it turns from anteroom shape into a loose column like a dried mushroom stem, like a Hindu ascetic in a cave, it is voracious, it does not tolerate lapses, this is why lunch must be contained, managed! Best, Todd!” His voice pierced the glass, which was good so I could stick out my index finger from the little hole and put it up and down and up, saying, head nod. Like Die Hard, I can handle this. I am the action trolley. The same sons were still in side view, only, maybe inches I had past them? I am a trolley of action—who cares”—and I have been all spilled, but my dexterity remains, to assent to the Lord, through his—who cares”—his hole. Who cares. I have red, red, red, and it’s blood!” Everybody laughed and even the upstairs Lord Sovereign, who is normally shuffling play cards, smiled before he coughed. This sinner, who Minds Not the Binder, this son, he must be managed and contained. But I digress. I progress. I am the movement, I am the movement of the organs of process, and I nourish the meter, now only a spry crinkled hair. Lord Sovereign’s sons and the Officer’s sons were beating to blood. Sanguis Christi effusus est pro vorbis! Sweat mixed with my waters and with my leather seats long sharp from being torn, bisected at lunch. Not a soul took communion. A warply Lord Sovereign could be glimpsed in the crackly luster of the corrugated aluminum tip of a safety hammer inside an emergency exit box. For what exit do we owe such an emergency? The question was rhetorical—just to touch base. No worries if not. Lord Sovereign was measuring his son, the distance of his son, the distance of his organ spread to the Flesh-Made-Idea, to the meter, now a screaming gravel hole in what was the HP (sleeping), in what was what the Officer saw through, before he took to his own sons for a measure. You cannot be too careful.” This was the first and concluding order of the Officer.

Elliot Swain

IG: @caresofafamilyman

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