This is the little brown blob calling. Blob comes and goes with various rocking motions, similar to that of a pendulum, back and forth behind the decorative glass of the grandfather clock.
Sat in the chair, blob examines the needlelike lines of ink across his A4. Symmetry can be.
Yellow may burst into a flowing red-breasted robin as the whale took up the soot and the ash from the dirty cigarette hand. Just a flick of the switch. The red and the black jelly ladies danced inside their plastic hall while the greens stood waiting for partners. Too self-conscious to go and ask. The little red riding hood spilt forth the liquid paper across my chest and the rats nibbled away at the knotted hairs.
The squares keep following me around the room unable to take their eyes from my blobular body. Die, servant, die. They cry.
Unable to stand the intensity of the stares, I light another cigarette and take the comfy chair, folding it quietly under my left arm. The golden wonder of it all.
The shepherds rounded up the crowd and they did surely follow like sheep.
I thought of the clever people and their 18 seater jets carry them about until they crash into the ground. And the train of thought revolves into spirals. Spiralling away to it’s happy oblivion. And when the oblivion descends it starts all over again.
Different place, different time, different people on a different line all descending and to ascend you must reach the highest order of psychological power.