THE WRITER MUST EAT -> patreon.com/trn1ty <- blah! ideas with no tangibility; ideas with irrelevant supports; ideas without value; ideas' witlessness; ideas' witnesses; ideas- <^>
2023-01-02 Ted wandered off as he heard sirens approach the crumbling office. His office was a part of a sparse lot of buildings in the sparse tundra of Underhelm, a small town on the outskirts of Dance City. The nearest neighbor to his office, a tall but sterile, empty building, simply concrete, glass, insulation, drywall, and plenty of carpet and flammable internal bits to start a blaze, had a sign advertising its potential as a center of operations or call center or something business or another that Ted didn't have the capacity to care about. He didn't know where he got the jerrycan, and didn't know how it still had any petrol in it, not to mention how it was still full. Ted kicked down the fashionable but laughably flimsy double doors to the office, then the next pair of doors past the entryway. The interior looked like it would look really good if it was set on fire. Ted angled the can to pour a thin stream of gasoline as he walked from room to room on the ground floor. He admired the new-car smell, the gasoline aroma, the new-wall scent, the benzene draw, the new tables and chairs and light fixtures and Cisco-branded IP phones and the pattern on the carpet and the sharp geometry of the modernist architecture and soon he was back in the lobby, having completed a loop. Like a soldier, he turned anticlockwise and continued out of the building, carving a petroleum circle into the dead grass surrounding the lifeless vessel. Ted struggled with his lighter. It was a disposable Bic that was nearly out of butane. After a minute of clicking he was able to get a flame for a moment and lit the gas trail. He watched the little bead of entropy follow the path and split out into three, two following the circle and one cautiously approaching the edifice. The brush and the building caught fire over a period of a couple minutes and the fire roared to life. "Must not have been up to code, that." Ted whispered to himself. "Quite a lot of form, though. Now it finally serves a function." <^>
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