That sudden turn of events, my dear

Gene would cry into the night. All alone, no friends, no family. Dreams of alcohol, pills, smashing a neighbor’s car into a brick wall. 

The point of life eluded him. Wear the masks or die he figured. 

Making a left onto Walnut Street, he envisioned an army of pink elephants slowly, uniformly, marching ahead of him. He hoped the street, the earth, would open up and accept the beasts. Their stomping produced a marvelous symphony. And who better to hear the eternal bliss than the gods of the underworld.

Upon waking the next morning, Gene went for his regular morning walk with Ms. Davis, that secretive old hag with whom he loved and hated. Her bank account paid his bills, but her complaints drove him crazy. He thought about telling Ms. D about the elephants, and their march to the center of the earth. He fast forwarded through her mind, projecting her fears into his own mental map of the world, and saw that the distance between her reality and his was too far apart. 

So he listened and observed, practicing a drum solo in between sentences. 

Another day clean and sober he thought, wondering how excitement seemed to have migrated from the external sub-conscious into his internal mind. And with that, he yawned, sighed, and fell back into dreamland.