"We Call It Surrealist"

If I were goth I would be cryptic and call it the corner of Melancholy and Woe. A gun in my hand and I stand in the middle of the intersection that by day is a constant hazard for traffic james and by two in the morning is desolate and empty. Lights go out around me and there I stand. So I pull the trigger and break the illusion, shards of sky and asphalt mingling as the landscape becomes the dry wasteland it is. Twelve people birthed from clay and fully clothed speaking in tongues. One by one I shoot them all and they multiply like the heads of a hydra.

The sun casts a dull orange glow on everything and so I name the color that seems to suit my mood and when I am blinded in the dark my mind changes and we are back to orange.

I put the gun to my head and paint the sky with stars, a staircase that I climb up to hang off the moon only feet away from the sun, and then carry it down with me to the earth and sit on the grassy knoll while the parade drives by.