tick tock

The clock is pounding, the days flying by as my soon to be relocation from this hellmouth approaches.
I have tried rallying the troops, specifically the local comic book community, for assistance, to generally deaf ears. Am I resented, for my willingness and ability to leave this place? Is whatever strength I possess being lamented before I am even gone? Or is it the air, the genepool, the overall mood of lazed ignorance that wholly infects each and every local pending enough time wasted in this dead and dying part of the country?
And there is a dramatically limited worldview common here, as though this city were in fact some remote island on a far away planet in a lonely galaxy somewhere else entirely beyond the realms of reason and logic. Outsiders are feared, in the form of a quiet spite. I have died here myself a thousand times over the years, murdered by persons both foe and friend. How dare I. How dare I try with every iota of my being to live a life of virtue and ethics and morality, and free will. How dare I thrive on imagination and individuality and intelligence. Such things are outlawed here in the bible belt.

Good fucking riddance, no matter how the one and only attempt at rescuing any of my remaining belongings tomorrow goes. My meager possessions that I will shamelessly sacrifice if it means washing my hands of this place, of these self-possessed people, for good. Forever. Good riddance to utter rubbish.

"We are all in the gutter, but some of us are looking at the stars."
-Oscar Wilde
Lady Windermere's Fan, 1892, Act III