As it was, the sun set succinctly at 5 PM. Fuck Eliot, February is the cruelest month. Not enough daylight, too much night. Not enough days, too much night. This short month breeds hate and broad ambiguity, Eliot is an overrated elitist. You need to hate, but what? T.S. Eliot? Darkness? The brutal cold wind that slaps your stoic North Korean face upside the head? The stench of burning rubber that is no longer offensive? It just is. You can only hate and hate and hate.
All of this is unfortunate for the wolf inching towards an unsuspecting sheep in your flock. It is an obvious sore thumb, and you are the pain reliever. You are on it, like white on rice, or white on Republicans.
For God’s sake, wolf! You need to get the serious fuck out of there. Run! Don’t look back!
But look back, the wolf did, and for a long time. More than a pregnant pause, but just short of paralyzed with fear. The wolf smells you. It is too late. You are too fast. You pounce on top of that wolf and in one clean swift move, your knife cuts through its throat. This is a classic gurgled yelp, spurting blood on virginal snow moment, and then you feel something in your stomach. This must be what pride feels like. Actually, it’s a tapeworm from that dog you ate three fortnights ago.
As you, the North Korean pie-faced shepherd feast on the wolf, an emptiness like cancer grows. The only thing that can fix this hollowness is a side of your grandmother’s kimchi. That is not going to happen for many reasons; number one being, you ate her remains two years ago.
MORAL: Not only are North Koreans bad automobile drivers, they are ruthless killers with paper-thin ethics, and plain bad people.