The Curious Dreamlife of Marshmallow Addie - Volume 6
Marshmallow Addie woke up sitting bolt upright and screaming. He had just realized he was a character assasin. A solitary bead of perspiration made its way slowly through the lard valleys on his forehead and dripped onto his arm, where it was absorbed by his syrupy-mucous adipoderma (sometimes his Vociferous Critics called it good skin).
Addie shook violently at the terror of his realization. His right knee convulsed and oscillated by a foot on either side until it knocked over the pearl alarm clock (which for some reason didn't have an hour hand) and it fell to the floor and startled the imaginary cat, which dissappeared into a puff of sawdust.
It all came back to Addie now. Everyone he had ever loved and cherished was being killed recursively by the faux-writer of his dreams. But they kept coming back and he kept killing them again. Blow after blow, stab after stab, one character assasinated after another. Beautiful memories that took extreme sorrow to construct were falling victims to schandenfreudian yesterdays. It must not end, sadly. The cookie crumbles.
Wallflower the Hookah stood by a bare wall contemplating life's cruelty. Worlds had come and gone, smoke had flown, but some things couldn't change. What was glamour when the very essense of existence was absent? What were the mere thrills of craftsmanship in the face of this extreme tragedy?
Wallflower the Hookah was impotent.
Yellowbottom atleast knew where he stood (although sometimes solitary corners and stagnant water figured heavily in the scheme of things). Yellowbottom was a Genius.
Marshmallow Addie woke up sitting bolt upright and screaming. He had just realized he was a character assasin. A solitary bead of perspiration made its way slowly through the lard valleys on his forehead and dripped onto his arm, where it was absorbed by his syrupy-mucous adipoderma (sometimes his Vociferous Critics called it good skin).
Addie shook violently at the terror of his realization. His right knee convulsed and oscillated by a foot on either side until it knocked over the pearl alarm clock (which for some reason didn't have an hour hand) and it fell to the floor and startled the imaginary cat, which dissappeared into a puff of sawdust.
It all came back to Addie now. Everyone he had ever loved and cherished was being killed recursively by the faux-writer of his dreams. But they kept coming back and he kept killing them again. Blow after blow, stab after stab, one character assasinated after another. Beautiful memories that took extreme sorrow to construct were falling victims to schandenfreudian yesterdays. It must not end, sadly. The cookie crumbles.
* * * *
Wallflower the Hookah stood by a bare wall contemplating life's cruelty. Worlds had come and gone, smoke had flown, but some things couldn't change. What was glamour when the very essense of existence was absent? What were the mere thrills of craftsmanship in the face of this extreme tragedy?
Wallflower the Hookah was impotent.
Yellowbottom atleast knew where he stood (although sometimes solitary corners and stagnant water figured heavily in the scheme of things). Yellowbottom was a Genius.
* * * *