Smoking Cold

The bitterness remains in a month that is supposed to be about the release of such bitterness.

It remains smoking cold on Soybean Island and for what little I have to be thankful for I am at least thankful for that. For the bitterness and cold and the smoke.

I have so little to report because I am so little of a person.

I am reduced to a non-entity-entity.

It didn't used to be this way. I was once a productive human; one could even say I was a man of consequence. Back in my old life. Back in the United States and other places. Back when I was an investigative . . . Well, it's best I say no more . . . But let it suffice that, despite my prisoner status, I have done what research I can here in this spit of a spitball land and hopefully will have more to report in the future concerning how this mad non-nation is run and what happened to the indigenous Habs race of humans who once almost flourished, pre-soybeans and corn and rutabagas, upon this island.

Anyway, more pleasing photos please:

Stunning, I'm sure . . .

Yes, old habits die hard and though I do wander the streets and desolate landscapes in my ratty rattan clothes and my shopping cart and bags of non-goods, I'm still thinking and observing and critical-thinking and watching and asking oblique questions.

I am a fool who has yet to be fooled.

Now--look at these muffin shrubs!:

Delectable.

I shall continue my work here. I will reveal what I can reveal behind the curtain of normalcy and staid safety and comely facade. I will.

I give you one last photo. The best photo. The most revealing photo:

Yes. That about captures life on Soybean Island. A picture tells a thousand words!

Except when it doesn't . . .


Goodbye from Soybean Island