Whitetrash found himself once more transfixed by yet another of Jimmy’s many nuggets of wisdom. A nugget fully capable of arousing vague smiles of mild amusement among most of those who received it; a nugget the likes of which had on certain occasions induced short cynical sniggering fits and taken blows of light mockery; a nugget in which even Whitetrash himself usually partook with tongue at least partially lodged in cheek, as this wonder of creation unraveled multiple psychoses right before his very eyes; a nugget which at the same time is fascinating to behold, a poetic conclusion to all that is known about this tragic and heroic figure who, if disbelief is held fast in a cool, soothing, golden liquid, has the power to set free all manner of miraculous visions within the imagination, exploding popular myths, outshining received knowledge to illuminate numerous wondrous possible truths.
They sat outside Jimmy’s café as the wandering hoards idled by in their own state of alleged enlightenment, the wandering hoards that inhabited this town and willingly lent a helping hand to the endless perpetuation of collective repugnance that these two misfits could all too clearly see. At this moment though, Whitetrash and Jimmy Tennis neither saw, heard nor felt the presence of any other, yet again gripped in a floating lucid limbo where even the breath stood still. Jimmy’s echoey, slow-motion voice filled the void with sounds that made only the slightest of sense, his eyes melting into kaleidoscopic patterns similar to those of the evil baddy with hypnotic powers in old children's cartoons.
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