The war, lost before it even really began, haunts me as I stagger through the corridors of parliament: the select committee meeting is already closed. The walls are slippery some strange condensation; produced by the slow and rising broil of collective failure, it tastes a little like this blog. It dampens the back of my shirt as I crouch low against it. The carpet is also not very good for some reason.
How did we get here? Interns. Bland pictureless mindholes punctuated with charmless slang, their posts paw affectlessly at the eyes. And the eyes themselves? Damaged in the simple act of tracing characters so haphazardly collected, they revolt.
There is no haiku with which to fire you all.
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