If I was healthy and hopeful, this suggestion would be my official plan of choice. These days, I'm the sun bleached, scorched multicolored paper on the sidewalk

If I was healthy and hopeful, this suggestion would be my official plan of choice. These days, I'm the sun bleached, scorched multicolored paper on the sidewalk, no fewer months from than toward the next sparse event where audible, scintillating sparkles and afterwaft of celebratory smoke would warrant a calorie spent to twist one's neck in wonder. The days of inspiration and need for such references have passsed. I've wanted a globe for years, but remind myself for each impulse to acquire one that the world isn't round after all - it's an amorphous impression, delusions beleaguered by dumb bone steadily resembling flattened surface where the debris of a once vibrant flurry of wonder has settled lazily upon. If it isn't cheap or free, it's a cod fondling carrot smirking on the end of a stick crusted with the scabs of bludgeoned ambition. One less bean and grain of rice in my dirty bowl, in exchange for a pearly bauble dangling before a confused and sessile swine. A pound of pennies burns brighter than an ounce of silver in this fool's kitsch eyes.