from: low
much needed blubs

wiping my face of sleep, of dreams, of the plains and byways . . . or maybe a bad one-in-a-million searching for another one-in-a-million story, colorized to fit the environment . . . . not wanting to open my eyes, not wanting to tune into any particular station, just wanting to let the bandwidth skip loose and pick the remnants from the wind-whipped streets, crowned on half-plumed walls of glass. who said "what," "maybe," "where," or "when" . . .? I know it wasn’t the funeral of someone or the depot for holiday food distribution. what were they saying? the great one? from where? and what does it mean, born to the daylight red . . . and caused the weather to weather? I needed to know, I needed to have control of every second, plan every escape, find routes not known. I needed to find deep-dish discounts for micro-thread insights - there like a half-price course, a mersadizz benzzz, cat-o-lounge of drag queens. why did the weather change? why did I remember rats talking to me, especially the one with red corrugated eyes? who were these people in white spandex and why was I in a bathroom sized room where everything’s made of aluminum, that is except for the stupid purple spandex suit I am wearing and oh yes, spandex sheets . . . what is this? there must be some way to bend this backwards. I can’t understand these turn-around-misplacements. why do I have an endless desire to hear the mr. lime theme song played through the street, serving subzero lime stuff?