Everyman can cast no stones.
And anyway, in their mirror state, how plagued they’d be by stones returning.

Everyman will rise of a morning, pour the two vitriols of bitter and sweet, drink them both down. They’re skilled like that, at self-dissection, even up to rending themself apart.

Everyman is at home and ensconced… while Hercules demonstrates himself against dogs and fire-breathers. Everyman watches; Everyman has good envy.
That their envy combines with their frisson and fetish is their original sin.

Everyman is the pollen atmospheric, the bath of radio waves, the termite town of joint endeavour. All things, all things collected.

Everyman has been told the pitfalls of getting in among the great lovers: Paris, Helen, the torrential passions, the grand leaps. Everyman has come to crave a city with no blind corners.

Trouble with doors as well — when the sound of knock fades and the sound of hinge swells, Everyman is a felled torero, palms to the sand.

Everyman hums Mozart in order to fit in, making sure that everyone hears — and Bach, when in the better sort of company.

Of course, because Everyman knows their state, there are times when Everyman goes out and about in a cascade of purple and gold — sashays, preens: which does not relieve that state.
God’s left his heavy thumb on the scales.

Everyman once met Wonderwoman, early in their development: thought they might have a chance together and went through with it.
I cannot help know what everyone is going to do, bemoans Everyman.
Be, being. Do, doing. Everything is this personality thing.
Went through with it to the inevitable consequence.

A junior constable can usually save Everyman from jumping, a chief inspector is unrequired. Required would be a brilliant detective to figure out why the police force bothered in the first place.

Everyman is the sum of expected deeds, very produced, and the horoscope never lies for them. They blurt rarely, are continent. They are there when the flighty have departed.
Everyman is good if you want a national anthem.

—Everyman is my rock, says someone, a whitewash of the sepulchre, but there, always, when needed.
—And so unfair, isn’t it, that the city has a permanent yen for the outré, she says. I would — really — like to help Everyman out of their permanent dusk,
she says.

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