spaghetti chunks

Like I have rainbows. Scary dragons are hiding under the wooden staircase. If you hold the green glass bottle up to the light, it will refract open models of future space stations. When I drink the coffee under the kitchen sink, the pipes drip slime into my burning colon. Horse feed finds my dreams fried like the fourth of july grass breeze with a hint of autumn calling a gross football player. If elves really knew how to fly, the forest would be auctioned off to the highest bidder. Of course, that bidder will already have to have their mortgage cleared with the bank in order to set up payments. And, they have to high five movie star mogules who paint limousines with old hardened paint brushes. Blue paint drips in rhythm with an old man tapping a cane in Tibet on the edge of a babbling brook full of rainbow trout. He shall reach down with his bony hand and snatch a rainbow trout, thus consuming it into his frail body. Then, after chewing and swallowing, he shall proclaim the secrets of the universe like a crackling old radio glowing audio truth into a black night's sky. Laughing, he will die.

Kittens run and frolic with inner innocense as their fuzzball bodies tumble in the leaves.