Your Existence is Top-Level Wild!
A mossy, filed down human skull skewed with dynamic windstorms. Strobing on the left of a green nature. Two crosses embed themselves as they moved from front to back in a pyramidal figure placed against a cold, blood-red sky. Player piano tunes, warped and throbbing, provide the background music. Circus jesters prance before and open a gate to the industrial zone. The rails of steel wrap around and crush them and I feel it, blue acrid smoke fills their ventricles and rips them apart. The wrapper from the candies I just ate speaks in christian tongues to me and in some way reminds me that I will not allowed to be a deacon this time around. Darkness please.
Thankfully I received my wish. Apparently those candies had been somehow tied to an experiment used against me. Hours, days, or weeks later, I wondered if those symbolic systems of imagery had some sort of underlying meaning. My answer was then, “nope.” Just a general warning as to the effects of psychedelic drug use and how it can be a really great time, especially when you’ve volunteered to mull over a few things in a dank, dark, spider infested shed at the outcast farm.
Luckily, before my illusions, I had a chance to think about a few items. Namely, I promised myself to clean the urine stains from the area rug in my living room and finally install that gas fireplace in there. For reasons beyond me, I believed that adding a bit more “room” would solve my problematic life in a much easier manner than say, building a robot from scratch. In essence, this is what all the people of this region should do. That is, drop the war against the forces that be, demolish all conspiracy theory, and serve like they were bred to do. During this, they should enjoy living in a urine free environment by the warmth of a fire. Famished and only semi-hydrated by the moisture from the floorboards, I opened the cage, then the shed, and stumbled out into the camp. Emtpy. I guess the exodus began today and the infestation would begin soon. The sign said “vacancy.” I gathered up the left-over supplies and started walking. It went unnoticed for several miles before I realized that Ardell Rutherson was in fact walking by my side. He was a good old friend from my deforestation days. Before there was fertilizer, the largest area industry was forestry. The raw product being used to make wood chips for gardening applications, as well as for hamster beds and immigrant walls. In two years, all trees were removed in the area and while on the job, at exactly 10:46 a.m., the company simply took its equipment away and told us they’d be back after some routine maintenance. I walked back home after I realized that it was nothing more than malarkey that they’d be back. Old Ardell, then 60, was unable to find a ride and certainly unable to walk due to old man legs, and has been in this area roaming about and eating scraps ever since. Now 86 years old, he quietly informed me that he had witnessed the outcast move on their plans, as he had watched them for several weeks. He said he planned to finally walk back to civilization, on the condition that I buy him a hot egg dinner with toasted nuts. He remembers those toasted nut breakfasts that he was so fond of 20 or so years ago. I agreed to his promise, and then told him I had to go to the bathroom. A little privacy turned into me sprinting with all the might I had, which turned out to be enough to escape. As I ran, I certainly did not yell, “see you in hell!” That’s for sure. Who would I be at this point to be such a braggart about my speed? A nobody, that’s who… a nobody.
Thankfully I received my wish. Apparently those candies had been somehow tied to an experiment used against me. Hours, days, or weeks later, I wondered if those symbolic systems of imagery had some sort of underlying meaning. My answer was then, “nope.” Just a general warning as to the effects of psychedelic drug use and how it can be a really great time, especially when you’ve volunteered to mull over a few things in a dank, dark, spider infested shed at the outcast farm.
Luckily, before my illusions, I had a chance to think about a few items. Namely, I promised myself to clean the urine stains from the area rug in my living room and finally install that gas fireplace in there. For reasons beyond me, I believed that adding a bit more “room” would solve my problematic life in a much easier manner than say, building a robot from scratch. In essence, this is what all the people of this region should do. That is, drop the war against the forces that be, demolish all conspiracy theory, and serve like they were bred to do. During this, they should enjoy living in a urine free environment by the warmth of a fire. Famished and only semi-hydrated by the moisture from the floorboards, I opened the cage, then the shed, and stumbled out into the camp. Emtpy. I guess the exodus began today and the infestation would begin soon. The sign said “vacancy.” I gathered up the left-over supplies and started walking. It went unnoticed for several miles before I realized that Ardell Rutherson was in fact walking by my side. He was a good old friend from my deforestation days. Before there was fertilizer, the largest area industry was forestry. The raw product being used to make wood chips for gardening applications, as well as for hamster beds and immigrant walls. In two years, all trees were removed in the area and while on the job, at exactly 10:46 a.m., the company simply took its equipment away and told us they’d be back after some routine maintenance. I walked back home after I realized that it was nothing more than malarkey that they’d be back. Old Ardell, then 60, was unable to find a ride and certainly unable to walk due to old man legs, and has been in this area roaming about and eating scraps ever since. Now 86 years old, he quietly informed me that he had witnessed the outcast move on their plans, as he had watched them for several weeks. He said he planned to finally walk back to civilization, on the condition that I buy him a hot egg dinner with toasted nuts. He remembers those toasted nut breakfasts that he was so fond of 20 or so years ago. I agreed to his promise, and then told him I had to go to the bathroom. A little privacy turned into me sprinting with all the might I had, which turned out to be enough to escape. As I ran, I certainly did not yell, “see you in hell!” That’s for sure. Who would I be at this point to be such a braggart about my speed? A nobody, that’s who… a nobody.
posted by fiestawizard at 10:10 AM
1 Comments:
does this constitute "chatter"? if so, watch out!
if not, thanks be to Rutherson!
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