down through the mind, sliding along the sides of the funnel and out through the spout that glides down into the depths of forever. Peace no longer lives here, he died of cancer many years ago. Narcissus dreams here, lying in the shade of the windowless sky, wisping for the thoughts that tinkle on heads like a sprinkler in July. To question, to see, the picture is no clearer than a salient dream. The wind is the light that forever gusts in gales or shrinks in zephyrs, illuminating only the sides of the windowless dream of reality, tickling fancies with flights of delusion.
The absence of light is a blinding force that winces as we assert our meaningless death strokes against the glum reaper of the blighted harvest. The voices screaming are not real, only Hollywood effects. The bill is real, Mastercard and Visa gladly accepted, as well as indentured servitude. Your eyes are open, but your reality is windowless. Do you like what we're having for dinner? I'm sure you appreciate the olfactory tantalizations that wash through your Lysoled minds--we call it sanitarium surprise.