she started at sunrise, asking questions to the birds, asking where she could go to know how to find peanuts for apples in summer. someone somewhere didn't know, didn't wonder, didn't want to have any idea about something and what. but she kept moving towards the big black writhing knot, the big black pulsing, writhing knot of velvet fringe-like strands tightening and loosening irregularly, tightening and loosening into a knotted mess of ripped and torn fragments destined for the garbage can.
garbage day garbage day is coming, rumbling down the highway towards us, rumbling noisily in big trucks at dawn, up the broken streets and into our homes, up the stairs and into our bedrooms, then out through the windows and flying upward, upward, leaving behind a trail of sticky food wrappers and broken bits of appliances and cardboard (which really should have gone in recycling, tsk tsk) and shattered glass and plastic packaging (torn open) and other things, things i can't say, things you can't see.
and poof, exploding in the sky into nothingness, or into a fine blue vapor, hanging briefly and then floating away in the breeze, towards the south, towards the always-summer, towards the thick dark jungle under water. where fruits that grow also swim and reality slides slowly into cartoon, thick paint oozes and covers everything into opaque blocks of primary colors, separated by thin black lines to outline their shapes. and then it locks up stuck still like painted over windows you can't open, like walls and framing so thick with so many years of layers of paint it comes off in rainbows and all of the corners and cracks are rounded, as if worn down, but actually covered and possibly irretrievable.
plainly waiting, again
plainly hoping?