All of this transpired while I was deep asleep in a frustrated parody of rest dying alone at the bottom of the world while my couch was trying to eat me. Daring to lie upon her, the crime of touching base with the world without being fully in love with her, I think that is what made her gift me this touch of lust and dream and explosion and lofty air. It was a breeze of parental figureage that broke the door down at some point, once my mermaid lover and I, on land, away from the festivities, in some pool side cabin where the rich lords of mirth pack away their floaties and noodles that they use to spar upon the shoulders of giants to battle the arrogant splashes of those they drag under. We lustily moved like ocean waves, like dreaming angels, against the current of each other’s dragging tides that washed up shells and tin cans and the plastic in our own bloodstreams in concurrencies of pleasure and dearth. Till the shore crashed upon us and we raged in pleasure, and when we came. Rushing in the door it screamed ‘A hot air balloon! Too high! It has gone rogue! The race is in danger! It flies into the stratosphere! Come quick! It will break away! We must stop it! Come! Help us!”
We saw them from our bed, on the hill, they yelped and begged the balloon to come safely home! What panic and concern for those lost inside. Those poor helpless lost drifters whisking away, who were us, who we made in our dream of connection. The manifest! We must find it. Oh! The concern and pity for the pleasure of those who we must capture and bring back home.
The Haunted Typewriter 