Ryzhnikov
Smudge was a man who lived near the docks in Liverpool. Melon headed, flabby, mustachioed businessman, kind guy but not too keen on the works of the world. Always smoking a cigar. Never once married, but lots of women nonetheless. Glasses. Big.
It ripped through the streets of Firenze like a wildfire through a field of barley. And so many were lying around, dying, that it seemed the world slowed to turn from the stagnation of rotting corpses, and music was drowned by the sea of chronic coughs.
"Wheat. We are all wheat." So then nothing is wheat also? What if nothing is wheat? Nothing is everything? Dostoyevsky you were a fucking genius. Oh my God we are all wheat. Wheat. Wheat bread wheat shoes wheat bread wheat shirts everything is wheat. I love wheat. Wheat is me and I am wheat. We are one and the same, wheat.
Bronze horsemen crashed the hooves of their beasts home as their golden Bactrian sabres rattled in Median saddles. Clouds of dust swept across the sky.
Destined to be silly, destined to die and live dying, love dying, do everything dying, they set out across open fields that didn't burn and crossed into Middleshire, where they stopped for oysters and clams at the local market before crossing the pavement streets down to the sea. There they heard seagulls and decided there was nothing to do.