I am scratching my head. I think of pulling or picking my brains out. I think of mummification. I think of class structure. I strike blood. Sticky. Warm. Confused. Fingers feel sticky. I smell them - metal. I look at them - garnet.
bicycle the wind peddles through a small tree
Someone walks by. They are humming a melody from some long lost classic rock radio station that is the same as every other classic rock radio station buried deep deep below atlantis - second left at the atlantic, if youʼre curious. It soothes me. Like a giant dadʼs lullaby - all dadʼs are giants, I suppose. I wonder if they ever struck brains.
I look out the window. The neighbours have a navy blue cat flap on a white door. I think of the neighbours pulling or picking their brains out. The brains then crawl off. Like, leaving for school for the first time. That is, sad, lonely, please come back. Oh well, at least write once in awhile.
The brains crawl into the garden. They shit under an hydrangea. The hydrangea was once blue but now shriveled brown from the winter. Then the brains go back in through the navy blue cat flap. They eat a pack of sausages. They read the newspaper. Everyone awkwardly remains silent.
out of time giants
- a lighthouse
gets smaller
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