Te­la­mon

Domus - - CONFETTI -

How un­like Her­cules, who brought you such a state af­ter only twelve ex­er­tions. Now you, clones of At­las, white­face, heads bent in­wards in forced sup­pli­ca­tion have to bear the Belvedere on the small of your backs. Quadru­plets, if only you could have con­fronted his­tory in­stead of fate, the dreams of Franz Joseph’s Kais­er­tum could have been an­ni­hi­lated with a sim­ple shrug­stand­ing up and walk­ing away in car­di­nal di­rec­tions. How long will you carry the weight of missed op­por­tu­nity, of let­ting Ata­lanta pull the bow­string be­fore you, bring­ing down both the Cale­do­nian boar and your pride. Pet­ri­fied pro­cras­ti­na­tors, you fluffed re­demp­tion yet again let­ting your legacy be pur­loined by a Sch­warze Hand with a semi­au­to­matic, who needed but the right mo­ment to take down both Fer­di­nand and the con­ti­nent. Ex-arg­onauts, KO’ed by a mo­men­tary loss of nerve, now like Sisy­phus stay con­demned to per­form the one labour for all eter­nity.

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