Bjarkarímur, or The Slaying of the Bankastarfsmaður October 23, 2015Posted by The Typist in Toulouse Street.
The cognitive dissonance between who I am and what I do (or rather for whom I work) is rapidly spinning itself into vortex which, upon its eventual collapse into itself, will produce a singularity in my personal universe out of which will emerge…
Something. Who I was once, and wish to be again. Or Something entirely new.
I write about myself with the same pencil and in the same exercise book as about him. It is no longer I, but another whose life is just beginning. – Samuel Beckett
I don’t know. I don’t fear the CERN Supercollider. I fear myself.
As in Fuck Everything And Run.
P.S. If E.P. hadn’t been a Fascist dupe and anti-Semite, mistaking Il Duce for Confucious(rather a steep course of hurdles to vault, I admit) his image would push beret Che (who had plenty of his own baggage) off the shelves. E.P. also wore stylish hats.
P.P.S Google the title. Then Google the obvious geographical reference in the result and “banks.”
P.P.P.S Beware the Bankastarfsmaður my son, the jaws that bite, the claws that snatch.
P.P.P.P.S One two, one two, and through and through, the vorpal blade went snickersnack.