Here lies Martes Flavigula, eternally beneath the splintered earth.

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In Their Own Atmospheres
Tue, 21 Mar, 2023 00.05 UTC

I sit at a table in the aeroport in Houston, awaiting my flight to Orlando. I am filled with an inchoate rage as I observe the remainder of humanity, going about their movement from place to place as if there is no overhanging emptiness waiting to engulf them.

They pursue minutiae in subconscious hopes that it will give meaning to moments they just place aside never to return to. Some of them have succumbed to biological imperative and descended into tribal lust for the survival of a small bubble they label ‘family’.

I am apart. Though i always have been apart. Shouldn’t I be used to it? Nope. One can never become used to it. I see them sat like puddles and others flow like streams around them, all in their own atmospheres, unfortunate and rotting.


The base absurdity of being alive hits me with the force of a cellophane sheet. I tear it aside. I watch, furtively, the black guy sitting at the table in front of me who dons a pink cap and a furry, tan sweater. Just before, he placed his headphones, a brilliant blue, upon his head, then adjusted the hood of his tan sweater accordingly.

Are people so concerned with their appearance to the outside folk? To the other bubbles? To the other tribes? What does it accomplish?

I want to kill them all.

Along with martens, goulish goats and the rippling fen -
these writings 1993-2023 by Bob Murry Shelton are licensed under CC BY-NC-SA 4.0

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