A degenerative condition, the brain suffered and the thoughts faded. Words drooled off and the tongue had dried. The immortal was imprisoned in a never-ending loop of ironical pattern of words, words he liked, but not those in the prison. Impaled in a prison where he was greased up, ready for penetration. There was no hope or faith left, just the bicycle with its rusted spokes with a missing seat. “Up yours!” it beckoned, “right where the sun don’t shine”. Click! These were the sweet words which ended most of the conversations. Other synonymous and broadly consensual words followed. This was the most diplomatic it got with a thorough gentleman’s agreement in place.
It’s all over now. No sweet goodbyes.
