Buenos Tiempos

Good times are running, good times for the flock of those who adapt to everything as long as they lack nothing. Fabulous times, fabulous times to take advantage of consented disasters and caused catastrophes. Times like never before for the botch job, the unpunished crime, and the witch hunt. Good times are running, good times for tightrope walkers, for prestidigitators, and for sadomasochists. And the silent majority, enduring the downpour at the foot of a papier-mâché cannon, eats our daily bread with their back against the wall. Crying in the sea watching them come, watching them pass, pass, pass. Good times are running, good times for those gentlemen crazy about saving our lives at the cost of cutting our throats. Fabulous times, fabulous times for mourners, visionary chatterers, and miracle-working virgins. Times like never before to be cheeky or muster courage and ask for help. Good times are running, good times preferably for the lifelong ones, for the same old ones. For the same old ones. Always. Always.