meeting mr mouse

a fallen hope rises from the depths of a soul consumed by self-destruction

Sitting up in my perchy little nest i look down on the ants and scurry of the Los Angeles night light life. This gazing gander of sport anew with frustrated critics neighboring their critiques of how it all should be culminated and ruminated. Beyond a milky chew of cud out of a mouth full of blood as i lay dying somewhere else in the fields of this big bang story. i opened up my web browser to see where the hell i might be cause this ain't Kansas anymore Toto. Google ain't got no tab that translates this cryptic mind f**k into longitudes and latitudes and platitudes that keep my where abouts from becoming somebody's know abouts.
Lost. It seemed so. Maybe most likely still is so. Breathing has got to be down into the very low teens per minute as i can no longer sense even the taste of what i last ate whispering across tooth tongue and lip. And cold is only an assignment of definition to another assignment called temperature. Impressions soliciting themselves to bare awareness and name that b*****d "expression". Stranger than all the criss-crossed tendrils of verbage in this lunatic's reason to catch flys. Stars are out and bold an i wonder if the whole grid has finally collapsed as a result of one to many f*****g cell phone chargers being plugged in.
Looking back this must have been 40 years from now. How far the galaxy has spun across the universe at 2 million miles per hour times 40 years? F**k it, you do the math on that one. In what mad scientist's lab does all my movement signal discovery. What device is so sensative to pick up my fragilities dragon-fly wing thin as my soul and the soles of my shoes have become. Are. Who got the credit? What name did they file me under? Deadbeat motherfuckerasaurus? Chickenshiticus? Do i possess enough substance to set off a cool breeze and sooth an exhuasted essence?