The resolution, impossible to predict, is completed (with subtle angst), against the pedestrian notation, with implacable perfection. I am strangled and: There is no parking here. The commentary was without sync and she was an outsider, a tramp, and a whore: for seventy-five US dollars. We did not like her much. But it was impossible to predict. The natural course of the general agreement permitted occasional oversight and, while, indisposed by the erratic behavior of her father-in-law, she was nevertheless suicidal and acutely overwhelmed by meaninglessness. Yes, she was never one to utter, as she overheard, casually in the dining hall: I don’t like thinking like that because it is too serious. Those were, kindly, in betrayal and tempting words—an excuse, she reasoned, to commit suicide. Again, impossible to predict. The avalanche of aggression, the landslide of hate, the—Wait. Re-address the crowd as a custodian of terse discourse. Those were moments of resolution and this one, oh, unlike the feeble companions, was destined to be absolute and rip the guts out of the ladies locker room. We were only murdered by our own hands, the common hand wrote, in sign language: Fuck you. I don’t think anybody eats take out from IL Chino anymore, she commented and this, yes, yes, only hours, even hours, before her attempt. There are seventy-six records that are incomplete and incompatible with natural course of existence and none of them is in-line with the feminine hierarchy of unqualified, sure, unadulterated observance: life, golly gee, is so darn precious. Impossible to predict and yet the courtesy of the evasive man, the countertop woman, could not possibly describe the disparity between the two (yes?)—the obsolete version of psychological diagnosis and the modern, less academic, version of strangling suicide…Murder. Oh my, she only whispered, occasionally, as if her own dear sister would depart in such anger and impolite impetuous classlessness: I must, I admit, I must rearrange my dressing gowns. The warm-up simply will not do. Oh, my sordid and ugly impertinent daughter! The abuse of detachment is sourly confounded with your sick insolence, her mother remarks, purposefully, after the arraignment, the coming trial the disappearance of her self-worth into the lottery: 55 years.
Suicide, dear-dear, it was only ever impossible to predict.