the woman disappears, and her cloud-pattern mumu turns into a balloon and drifts upwards. it gets stuck against the corregated aluminum ceiling of the garage. for some reason, this troubles you immensely.
the sound of a set of silverware being thrown down stairs, run through paulstretch, slowed 50x
"Are we in the information age?" I ask.
"Dude, shut up." says a voice from the back.
i suppose a sort of faith in the order of the universe. if it's time, it will show up. if it's not, it won't. meanwhile, i'm not in a rush. it's a funny sort of memory, that only works in reverse.
i just let the marbles roll through my brain tubes, weasels restructuring tubes constantly, the marbles land, the universe has decided. this is the process i use to pick table, chair, and chair orientation when i deign to grace the mall food court (the one with the flowy ocean arc roof window) with my vote.
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