My mind enters a strange state. My shoelace unties and I kick it. Short thoughts and observations cover drawings for a picture’s worth of words. What good is this medium in today’s era? Lives rate the orchids’ lifespan. Why do we wait, and whom do we know?

I wake confused, unsure of my identity and location. I walk in socks over sandals. Sand seeps through the porous cloth into a world between toes. Life is bite-sized truths collected and pooled for universal understandings. These observations without explanations, poems searching for prose. They tell nothing but the words, sculpted. When your painting of an orange is middling, why not squint and paint boxes. What skill is there in middling? What skill is there in abstract?

In the time before, I thought the boxy orange a thing of last resort, a hack’s rendition of a photo-realistic orange, nature by way of poor-man. In the time after, I see what I missed. Not everyone reaches for the boxy glasses. It takes much to see little than to see all. Anyone can look but who can see. And once they see who can share.

Long words are lost on the minute world, where each minute must find differentiation from the next. Discourse is lost, replaced by witty words wrapped round white walls. When failure looms, rebel. When stuck in a box, tear it to pieces and dance in its shower. Who claims the tunnel’s light is the end? There is no escape until you cuddle with darkness. Nobody fears caves or boxes. Everyone fears escape.

I cut the mundane with a scalpel sharpened on the wit of the world. I waste words on stories of happenings.