This is an image post. Inspiration for this sketch came from this image.
In the darkness of the station concourse we swap plans for revolution — this coup, that terror, this bomb hurled beneath the wheels of the Archduke’s carriage. We will miss on that first throw, we purr, but the Archduke’s foolish bravery is matched only by his foolish compassion; he will hurry to comfort his wounded vassals, and that is when we will strike in earnest. What matter if they take us then? Sic semper tyrannis!
It’s not all such high-mindedness. We have fallen in love with the trappings of empire. The medals, the uniforms, the endless parades. We plan dictatorships like weddings. Flower, organs and ceremony.
We grow dizzy on train smoke.
Our brains fizz with rare storms. Colors and sounds swell and twist, find rare significance. We clasp hands, swear eternal loyalty, death before dishonor. We weep with the strength of our emotion. Rare camaraderie: at station’s end we puff out into the streets, vibrant and in love. We are perfect conspirators. Come the morning we have forgotten faces, names and plans, all save the purity of our devotion.