I sat watching three skulls drinking. They had faces like old leather books, trees that animals lived in. I wondered if I could tell them anything at all. They nodded politely as I spoke.
"I don't think I'll be sleeping tonight. Matter of fact, I might just leave from here. Don't worry. I have a ride. At least one out to the highway."
Soon, a thought tore away from the table and and became... refreshed, a nice little life of its own. The excitement made a cigarette get up to leave--too tired to continue. Besides, he had a car waiting for him in bed at home. I attempted to chase him out of the door, but he would not be rushed. He turned with a look that gripped my face like the door handle that he threw aside. "There is only one book across the malaise," I shouted after he was gone.
The thought landed back in my hand causing it to ponder this shell of a personality, this mask, a channel of color. I give the helium car touch, the extra finger and I don't care.
Three skulls fill with steams while I sit with an object mind like poached smoke. I love cooking, nothing can even touch my oils. That's where you'll find me, digestive system, home, me, where every heart stops at the refrigerator door.
Later, the skulls throw me like Chinese dice, a bundle of sticks. They would read the signs in my entrails, rolling me in green tea.