Dharma Beatdown

Chillin' by the Hell-realm water cooler.

The Imperial Youth Review

go back, jack

Sunday morning. You’ve awoken to the warm smell of an empty kettle on a blazing hotplate. Scrambling to turn the damn thing off, you’re reminded of what an old-timer recently told you- that Sunday mornings in summertime used to be full of the warm smell of colitas, but that a brief spasm of anti-colonial sentiment ended up with all the dope plants cut down and burned in a landfill far outside of town, their sweet vapors mingling with wine, and kerosene, and worse. Morning used to be a sweet routine on Rue de Becker et Fagen, you have been informed by stubbly foreign old-timers, whose depth of wrinkles and yellowness of hat-brims lend them the appropriate authority. “Heed our warnings,” their Carolina Herrera cologne seems to say. “We have been playing dominoes on this corner for A THOUSAND YEARS.” This is not important right now. For the moment, you have…

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