He never strayed from the day, until it set in stone, then he varied between racing toward his fridge, drowsily searching for Bacardi, or soaring on a table-top, barbaric arms unrolled atop its wooden chest.
On days off, he wandered thru hallways, and rocked his mind to spill words, interrogated it, pushing it backward, staring it sharply with shades of cool. The mind was innocent, more innocent than his body, and hardly ever knew what to say. Fortunately for the mind, his body was sympathetic and bipolar, so it would break out an illusion from its prison-cell, and assist its escape toward the burning, orange sun. But then it would have to drag it downward, and cradle its head in his hands, and fasten it onto shadowed corners.
With disappointments clutched in depths that shared semblance to the Mariana Trench, he would rise from his chair, gawk at plans that…
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worldtraveller70 