Have You Seen the Yellow Sign?

Have you seen the yellow sign? Jesus, I have. I read this play called The King in Yellow and now it's like I'm trapped in a Tom Waits' song. A man with cauliflower ears and no fingers on his left hand just moved into the apartment next to mine. He claims that he's a repairer or reputations, whatever the hell that is. He is constantly being attack by a feral cat. I'm thinking about calling Animal Control. That thing is dangerous.

Did you know that the government approved suicide chambers? I saw some goth kids waiting in line. They were texting on their phones and smoking cigarettes while drinking coffee. Some last meal, eh? At least they weren't listening to music. I don't know if Robert Smith's wail would be the last thing I'd want to hear.

I knew this artist who invented a miracle solution that turns living things to beautiful marble. He lost his melancholy lover who decided to take a dip. I guess she forgot to take her Prozac. I told him I'd buy the statue from him, but he looked at me as though I were insane.

Maybe I am insane. I'm starting to think that my church watchman looks like a worm. Like a pale, squirming grave grub. I spoke to the cockney kid that lives nearby, and he says that the man is missing a finger. It just fell off, I guess. What's up with all these people and their missing digits? I half expect a carnival to pull into town at any minute, the ringleader a midget in a top hat riding the shoulders of an enormous, mentally-handicapped man.

Oh, to not hear the screaming of sweet Camilla through the dim streets of Carcosa. To not see the black stars rising in the Hyades. The tattered yellow robes of the king stretch beyond the limits of time and dimension. I see the yellow sign plastered on buildings, hanging from windows, engraved on the flesh of strangers.

Why the hell does sparknotes not have a decent summary of the King of Yellow? I really don't want to read that goddamn thing again.