Can't ignore the breath of fresh air, in
immersive forgetfulness. The temperature of
a hand glazes the tungsten wire in your dessert.
Heat from a Muppet. An eerie environmental glow.
Questioning your own sanity when, by looking at
the unwashed dishes with your X-ray eyes,
seeing a psychedelic vulture. Grim perceptions of
other worlds make one talk backwards, like
extraterrestrials. Getting laid worries geographical
formations of slices. Groans from
rearrangement of something multi-faceted.
A series of events triggers a hypochondriac's
fake fever; two hours spent in a traffic jam
instills a lifelong fear of his own forward-facing
furniture. He's been seen through the window by
neighbors perching darkly on the sofa's
back. It's more whimsical than certain domestic
recurrences: the hammer ambulating around in a
bathrobe looks merely comfortable.
