bicycle

hello mr typewriter and how are you today? well, here we find ourselves again. let's write of something truly grand... like

like finding yourself upon the bicycle, wind in your hair and sky in your feet (because, you see, the bicycle flies, of course) as the puffballs of cloud drift past you scootscootscoot and some of those cloudpuffs are golden and white and they look like mashed potatoes (mmm) but then there are the cloudpuffs which retain that golden hue and mix it with red so bright it hurts to see (oh silly, those aren't clouds at all, those are treetops, brilliant fucking treetops) and oh to ride your bicycle on a crisp autumn sky like this, well fuck man, it's beautiful;

but you've got to land sometime, the sky doesn't go forever;

and this jagged jutting hipbone-sharp silhouette of mountain seems just fine

so alight on the crags and let your bike rest for a time while you carry on along on foot and skip on up the mountain path with sharp-creased steps and bouldrous hedge;

and look into the koi pond and watch them slip and sunder and dance;

and sunder and dance and slip into the ocean that the ground underfoot dissolves into (the ocean lives in the mountain? yeah, of course it does);

and kick your legs and look into his eyes, because there he is, the monstrous fucking squid in the ocean in the mountain;

and there you are, the monstrous fucking all of it in the ocean in the mountain

ah, let the tide carry you back to shore, lie on the sand and dress yourself in kelp and grin at it all in the damp morning light;

coffee! coffee! coffee would be lovely, so stroll into town and into the quaint little wooden room, and drink your coffee and eat your newspaper articles and just keep grinning because god knows you can't stop;

and it's a lovely morning for a bicycle ride, so hop on, cowboy! ride into the sunset oblivion of the upcoming cliff and

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