The emoted person is not inclined to give their best unless they feel that the situation absolutely deserves such treatment. On a shore, many famous authors and artists in a picnic, and one would be starstruck initially - until you realize that they are all truly ugly, perhaps except for one. But these images don’t matter because we don’t matter unless we move forward, and we must move ourselves. It’s a valid criticism - I slow, I stall, I never move things on fast enough, nothing ever happens, we stay in the same room and our brains eat ourselves alive. So the emoted person moves from their suburban attic towards the guillotine in the town square - there is one, antiquity, on loan from a museum, on public display. Last night the town square was full of people but the emoted person doesn’t identity why.

The emoted person began to move, agitated in circles, around the guillotine - be special, be free. It doesn’t mean you find a form of freedom and stick with it - freedom is not free if it manifests unfreely, if it is stereotypes. All the stereotypes of freedom are prisons themselves. The emoted person gave the beggars money and bought an ice cream cone and consumed it there and then, vanilla ice cream like Ellen West in an elitist man’s imagination. The emoted person left the town square and many things had happened already and it took very little time.

A dermatologist and a librarian celebrated their 25th marriage anniversary; their house overlooks the guillotine. They have children and they had celebrated but mediocre careers. They litter when no one is watching and they are active on the stock market. They live comfortably and go to fancy restaurants every two weeks or so, or whenever their children are home. They live very quietly and they have done neither good nor evil, at least as they intend to, in all of their lives. All they were saying is that you shouldn’t use them to make a point. But their house overlooks the guillotine, and they pay it no mind.

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The dermatologists used Daisy as their favoured perfume, walking merrily as they carried the flowers around with them. They were so happy that they forgot their own anniversary.

“Oh shit.” she cried as she remembered where the fuck she was. “My queen had quite the cunt.”
And never wore Perfume again.

The emoted person promised the rapper they would have coffee. They did not exchange names; faces suffice and career, the easiest discriminator, denominator of human nature.

The emoted person sharpens the guillotine in the dead of night. The emoted person weeps, and they are slowed down, there is no food, the emoted person gorge themselves on cheap street breakfast food in the morning. The emoted person never has enough, the guillotine is silver, bright and exact, like Sylvia Plath’s oven. There is something very banal and special happening, in the room of the dermatologist and librarian. It’s the evening of their anniversary, and although they do not love each other again, they deserve to feel as if they do. They love each other so.