JACK JOHNSON

And through the drunk of a boring eighty minutes, putting a pen down and frothing forward a drooling ink from the pen in my hand, I dozed off, obviously enough, unable to put up with the simple descriptions that mulled over genuine interesting glitter shines and wouldn’t shut up about turning purple or green, depending on something or whatever.

Under my wand of language was the reasonable chill of every season, the metaphorical frost which gathered on the ends of the folds in my hand. The crumbles of the cells were cooled, with the outermost bits of space just freezing further. Yet–it only took just moments of the winter under my palms waning into a room-temperature, and to a satisfactory even if barely a warmth while I sat in waiting, unable to even keep watching the colors directed in front of me.

And through my eyelids lifting the weights of exhaustion that crusted over the wet I daydreamed, obviously enough, which through the vision appeared the sparkle and genuine interesting glitter shines that wouldn’t appear in my anti dormance.

Up rose with its pastel pegasus shimmer, there was a cat whose fur must have been tinted to a bubblegum and littered with the paint determinant of sprinkles. And from its groomed pelt that curled on tiny ends it spilled glitter that reflected the rainbows adjacent to a cup of tap water chugged under the middle day sun. And upon inspection, clear enough, the shadows of its brilliantly hued pelt were too a bit rainbow, with a pink and a yellow and a purple and all in between.

From the cat’s shoulders branched forward the arms of a bird–and, clear enough, they blended magnificently to a brighter sunshine. They boasted and held onto the white starry qualities of a gaseous newborn star that lacked red, and only held reflections in its cell wall. And despite its little miniscule feathery imperfections, clear enough, the dust of stars that glossed its wings had fallen off like a pharaoh’s trap of sandstone and glitter.

Parallel vertically with the rainbow glitter-tarred nose of the being of sprinkles and shimmer that’d stop the sun itself dead in its tracks, just above its incomprehensible eyes I didn’t even bother to salute, clear enough, was a spiral. Some sort of spiral which balanced the bright in its bounce with the dip that shone shadow. The spiral that changed it all to me and let the cat lie with its majesty, and the spiral which coned itself to a level which any rhinoceros would turn green.

The cat had flicked an ear–and I now noticed perhaps this cat was less of one but more of a kitten. Its eyes were wide in conjunct with its paws, which swirled with another pyramid, clear enough, letting itself swim in this ocean of no gravity, for it lived in the space we couldn’t breathe or understand, and I, clear enough, could not either. Yet, clear enough, I guessed that in that moment it couldn’t matter much, as the air tasted like cupcakes and the murderous sweet of a sugar cookie, and my nose was textured in the breath of discarded glitter.

I had no chance to say goodbye to the moment, and apparently had died away in the air without oxygen. It was the one thing that was not clear to me, unlike how simple it was to breathe in order to inspect the glitters I’d looked for. Because the pen I’d held that leaked a shine of space was now off from my hands, somewhere alligatoring by the rubbers below me on the ground under hard stomps. If the clearness had taught me just one thing it would be that we cannot breathe in outer space and that I should listen, rather than watch.