Viscous Air

Outside every good airplane is a big cliff. Like a really really big one. the kind which is so high you dont think you are high anymore. cept you really are very high, hypoxic really. kinda turns into a hypnotic little trance as you fall through the blackness. what really is bad though is all the light pollution. like sodium is lighting up so much of our skies its like walmart and mcdonalds teamed up with starbucks to deliver diguisting not really light but light light to the corner of your block, or favorite treehouse at the end of the back 40. like that but different. but not all that different. not different like what happens when you start to think about randy quade showing up riding in a red flyer wagon to deliver your milk and paper at 5.30 in the morning. different like what happens when you start to wonder about what is different. like how shades of green start to look green and stuff. next thing happens all the plants look green and pretty much the same. uniform like. then the suburbs pop-up, your cars and trucks start taste a bit weird, as they are no longer made out of stainless steel and lack that really crisp lovely tang of metal. that kind of uniform. army, collective, swarm-like wierd, were everything tastes like tasty wheat. nearly good, but not nearly good enough. then you end up watching instead of living. kinda like plato's cave smacking you down when you headed to the snack-bar and ended up with tasty wheat and no idea where your seat was and then you head back outside and see a whole swarm of furry little lemmings heading right for the cliff, in a furry little cascade of self-locomoted masturbatory conformity. kinda. it could be a lot like that. or not. so next time you all pick up a box of lightbulbs make sure they don't come with strings attached.