Sunday Evening Deconstructed

All was well until around 4:00 p.m; that's when my head tripped over a teardrop. The sudden collision woke the regulators, who sounded a rotospoke alarm, and a well-armed unit of shit-storm troopers outflanked my luminous gyroscope and fired a warning volley. I ducked for cover like a side-door lover, but there was no cover, and I was left standing in the rain with a diplomatic banjo. A chemical rain, and sparks flew. Where was Bela Fleck when I needed him. I called out to animals that had never existed, "Write me a story." They sent emotions instead, at least I think it was them. I ran wild in the margins, sitting all the while. Pot shots were taken; I ducked and waddled.

The familiar unfamiliar led me, pulled me, covering too much time and not enough territory. Thunder cracked, rain fell, animals cried. The panoramic view behind my eyes burned the time and distance with its dark gray brilliance. I saw all but remembered nothing. Time shuddered. The otter nestling in my left arm drew her whiskers across my neck, and goose flesh exploded. We remained at the far end of the line, relaxed and crying.

Sometimes, a mind is a terrible thing to have.