It was like a dream on steroids, and roller skates. Like I could touch everything from here to there without leaving my lazy boy, without having to incline my torso. Everything on ball bearings. It was like 15 questions answered under the skin. Gooseberries and pumple bumps and men with clip boards and scarfs around their necks measuring each raised hair and the depth of my deer-in-headlights (11.2 lumens) and my guffaw factor (initial gasp x length of silence / number of vocal sputterings + magnitude of facial cramping (plus one and/or two modifier for any bladder or bowel relief–involuntary)) (157.96 mms).
And then I expired out the head. Where time was less like the melting of ice cream cones and more like a banana waiting to be peeled.
Silly, silly rabbits. Trix aren’t even for kids. They’re for spacemen. I am what I was. Peeled. My time–flat, open, excused. Vapor–poof–inhaled through the lungs of my children. Exhalations. A flat hand extended. I dribble dew like condensation on the glassed wall of the Creator peeping through. His eyes like my mistakes and heartache.
Then they put me at this desk and I type I type I type I type I type.