A Trip to the Farm

by November 6th, 2018 - Creative »

The letters fall off the blocks in my head. The words they once formed destroyed their own meaning and all I know of them is the echo of their dripping drops. My eyes bleed to obscure their source and the deterioration of my senses sends me through a heat I can sense in every way but feel. I am above it. A pulsing blue sky. A stripe of dirt runs through a sea of golden corn stalks. Below me, a fresh steaming curl.

The Sporadical skeptically promotes the following:
SKEPTIC Reason Penn and Teller Frank Zappa