Like a Christo

The median age for mediocrity is about to come up, panting across the finish line as the hands of the clock tip to 3:45. The fine toothed comb used to brush your hair has found numerous animals living there, and I am going to seize them and take them as pets. The rushing waters of divinity somehow missed me, I was standing there in my bathing suit next to the waterfall, but completely missed the chance to be doused in holy water. I've taken my beach towel and strewn it over the mountain like a Christo.

I inhaled deeply to sense the rain, it was almost sliding off of the tar roofs and plastered wet stains to the brick walls of the buildings. The power lines were wrapped up, choreographed, it seemed, by pure chance, as they swarmed the pole in a game of hand over hand on the bat to see who goes first. All I smelled was the bark of the nearby trees, the piss from the train station steps. I also heard a few birds chirping.

The power fan I purchased from the hardware store was keeping my computer cool, it was overheating with each video project I did for the church choir, somehow, despite all odds, I ended up helping make songs for the Big Source. It looked like a throwback from the 1940s where there were machines and appliances that looked like space aliens. I had lately been thinking of how the story of Eve completely undermined the whole idea of knowledge.

Sipping on coffee was a bitter pursuit, but while looking at the veins on the leaves of the houseplant, I groaned with the morning and came awake. Tiny sticks of burned incense littered the flowerpot like soldiers or scarecrows. I tried like hell to imagine a bird, flying out of the center of my heart.