MOR: Positive, negative, Lohbado wrote the root syllable of Morono on a sheet of paper. MOR, give me more, he started with a morbid, dead root and let it flourish into a playful sprawl of Os open to everything and nothing, to oh so wonderful adventures of inner and outer worlds, micro and macro cosmos, concrete and abstract. He wanted to do something positive, but his mind wouldn’t allow that. It wouldn't be sincere to pretend to be in paradise when a hook dragged him towards the gates of hell. While in hell, he would explore and learn all about it.
He actually didn’t go right into hell. He lingered at the dangerous door. He peered into the darkness, smelled the sulphur and heard the weeping, wailing, head banging, chest beating and gnashing of teeth.
Do whatever it takes to stay sane, said a poster next to the door.
First he drank some beer to take away the chest pain, headache and nausea. One beer worked fine for Lohbado to ease the upsurges of sickness. The first sips of cold beer felt good right away.
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