At the gandering skin of a gang member's funeral...

"The point I haven’t made, which of course I haven’t made, is ..." and the sound of automatic rifle fire filled out earshot, with a glaring, post traumatic high frequency buzz. God damn, bullets’ departures from guns are ... when you habit their backside, which is generally the safer area than the recipients’ to hide in. The interactivity of gunslingers degrades to winces and yells after a few too many .45 or MAC-20 recoils. Only sleep degradation softens the snick of silencer bullets perceived from a perpendicular angle. The tension of staying awake amplifies and deadens events, with no foreground knowledge of which one winds suggest. How long will the paranoia battle the blackout; or where will the snow no longer awaken the soldier, peering over sights locked from other dimensions’ conscripts, map long since trampled in woeful battles behind him/her? When the sacred crystals no longer kick the magician back from the fold mis-made, the door to the metaphorical has opened, the high path has fallen steppe for steppe with the middle, and the dark world yawn below collides with the heat of internal explosion. It’s nasty work, flagged with death defying surprises. On the other hand, you could be stuck painting pure landscapes in Holland, before the form was deemed sellable. If I recall correctly, master Ruysdael starved to death, as Hobbema tossed in the towel. The powder burns and paint smears (and occasional blood spatters) run havoc to Sunday best, so I guess we habit that common.