My office have one staff , she I my workmate. Working together always, she always picking her nose everytime and everyday. One day, she call me to buy fruits watermelon for her. When she eating the watermelon she using her own hand to eat. She say delicious taste salt and sweet too.
This is Minnesota. Cold hands, especially the backs. Icy everything. It's hard to move. Yet it is in movement that heat is generated. I have these black gloves with the finger tips cut out for writing. It is hard to type with them honestly. Subtle differences in how they feel. Micro-messages to my brain. small perturbations, pushing me off course, causing typos, slowing my flow. But this is Minnesota, don't'cha know? I proceed with hindered flow. I write it out. I've got my beverage. I've got my classical music. Now I just need to create. My brain is icy. My mood is cold. This is Minnesota. A place no one should go.
Yeah, there are strange creatures creeping through the woodpiles. Yeah, there are important things to be discovered with our eye cameras. Opportunity grows faster than weeds and poverty. But I want to sit down now, Carmone. I need to rest these invisible gravity forces inside me. My inner atmosphere is too unpredicatable right now, and I need to still myself. I take my chances with the forces that are chasing us. I’m too downtrodden, Carmone. If you want to go on without me, that is fine. I understand. You have much to live for. You have many reasons to embrace these opportunity sparkles that perpetually barrage my vision tablet. I’m losing the will to go on. People jump to horrible conclusions that are only partially true. They activate their detachment protocol because of the stupidest flaws in my spontaneity mission. Leave me alone, Carmone.
The people are getting nervous, aren’t they? They are biting their nails and stumbling out of their sleeping quarters at all hours of the night. We can’t heap blame onto their plates, though. Why? Because there are crop circles in our corn fields. There are toe-tapping atheists clapping their hands at our crumbling churches. There are butt-fucking viruses mocking all our pesticides. The people are worried. They rest their hand on their stomach and pass squeaky gas out their overweight asses. But we can’t jump on their blame button. There are governments passing out drastic taxes. There are indoctrinated psychiatrists prescribing laughless capsules. We wash our medicines down with lactose-free milk. Yes, even our cows are altered from their inner-most neurons to their outermost cow-ness. If you want real milk these days, then get down on your knees and pray that NASA will find cows on Mars, and that you can somehow get to that organic cow-tit before corporate America does. Hurry.
We were sipping on the vine and there were famished soldiers strumming their chords and letting them ring like gentle sirens. I’m counting to three. Tombstones block my view, I’m trying to see the horizon. Apple trees block my view. I’m trying to hide from search planes. Streaking comets guard my view, I’m trying to see my home planet. I’m sipping on the vine, it’s scrambling my mind. I'm counting to three, then I’m setting the glass on the table. It’s dripping on the dirty floor. I’m swinging in my hammock, trying to find my inner child. I was listening to the soldiers play their guitars and sing their protest songs. They were guarding my view. I was trying to find my inner child, who was trying to hide from his outer-adult. Everything I tried failed. But I tried.