Combat Is Conducted According to a Ritual Formal as Song

• Me, once. Olive now.
• I'm not Dark, my eyes have stabilized. My autobark however....
• United broke ground yesterday on a stadium I predicted would never be built, see Fuck-Me-Jig tag, and promised to dance in front of my season ticket seat and post here as payment against dare. I quit United before this stadium was proposed; I have no season ticket to dance before.
• I don't miss United as object of rituals.
• I no longer take pride in abandoning United.
• If I felt obligated to mention this for Blog's sake how done with ritual am I?
• What I miss most about United games other than being at games with Landru and SeatSix: the long drives through Mongolia County out past Laytonsville, Hawkings Creamery Road, Griffith Road, Howard Chapel Road, on the way to RFK. 
• On a Moco map from 1855 SeatSix gave me that country is called Cracklin.
• I do miss RFK.
• I wish I could abandon and not miss other dry wells of rituals.
• Unrelated to post but related to me: Happy Birthday, Elric.
• I'm the clown referred to ▼, not Elric.

ETERNITY

Tom Clark

The god of war assured King Arsounas, “Do not be fooled by words. No life is taken. Know that no one was ever born, nor does anyone die.” In the violent mini-eternity of the warrior, combat is conducted according to a ritual formal as song: no one is ever born, no one can ever die. The left-handed rockabilly guitarist whose left arm was severed by an RPG round at Dak To has come back to life in a part of my body that died long before we started to patrol this part of the river of eternal woe. His life is mine though I never lived it. The violent backwash of the rotors is crimsoned by a fine aerosol spray of blood while a loudspeaker amplifies the goddess’ excited laughter.