There’s a place where the real writers hang out to talk about the things they’ve done. I take those things and turn them into this for fun. It’s not meant to be good- but if you tell me it’s bad, I’ll slit the throat of a bag of noodles and eat them cause I’m sad.

Think of england- a place with cobblestones reflecting cumulus. Think of what could ignite in cities so grey- a conundrum created by no one but myself. There, in the closeness of our collarbones you’ll find my tuliped-mouthed flower boy- this is my favorite one.

I live on this road called route nine, and I was walking down it the night after a mysterious seer stole a piece of fabric of space. It was never my intention to get involved in a timeshare- and so I went on walking with my dear flower boy. That flower boy was Mr. Travis Williams.

We walked and walked until Mr. Williams stopped and said watch out for horses. I can’t see them but they’re there, you know, the little things that I can’t see. He removed his brown shirt and brown pants for an even tan.

“My wife and I are raising our daughter.”

I handed him my wallet (there’s just pictures of Herb in there) and he mumbled on about the horses. They came out from his imagination and into our realm in time on that road I live on called route nine.

The big one, white with stakes for teeth raised a hoof as a sign of greeting and spoke: “I’m Lucy!”

Mr. Travis Williams threw a loaf of bread at her.

An appaloosa, Emily the valedictorian of horses, jumps in too- with a seagull and sand the size of golfballs. They ran with the speed of horses, and manes of horses and eyes of predators. They chased me down, down, down route nine- the road where I live.

What do you do down there?

I climb a tree until the horses aren’t trying to eat me anymore.


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