MinerMinorMajor

There is a crystal palace. On the edge of a dark night. INSIDE the space near the edge of the end of my head. It serves mint juleps at inflated prices. Therefore it is the recommendation of the austerity council that self-serve frosted mini-wheats shall henceforth be named the official currency and coin of the mid-land realms. Until such time as the day or bowl of cereal ends. Inside that cereal bowl is a crystal palace, filled with supermen. Until such time as Jorell closes the bannana republic near the hippocampus and decides to initiate a kitchen-wide spending spree enforced by the lookout post above the fridge in the kitchen light. That indeed is what it means to be an interstate transportation system lost on the superhighway of the information age. It means an reality and version of camelot turned into the bazaar of a thousand nights spun down into a top-quark mass revolving around a synapse inside of a skull, leaning over a table in a theatre on the eastern side of broadway right near the starbucks. That my friends is near to the time the garden gnomes start to move and come alive --everybody loves lattes.

DISCLAIMER: No substances, illegial or otherwise were harmed in this exercise and any resemblance to reality, intentional or otherwise was purely coincidental.