Sellophane

Curl it around your tiny finger. Like a finger shoved impertinently through a smoke ring. Type slowly chewing each syllable, playing around with it in your mouth. One goes pop, the other a blatant blip. Slow motion dreams, huge chunks of them. We will swim through them and bleed a drop or two as our own personal version of a cheap romance.

But what did the joker say to thief?

Why is it even important? Maybe he talked about his own life, as he saw it. Painted in the colorless hues of incandescent confusion. His bloodshot eyes in perfect harmony with the laughter inducing musical nose. His plastic smile, the only fixed centre in a life that crumbled away life monumental ant hills in the rain.

Maybe he talked about his Bess? Bess, the landlords black-eyed, black-haired daughter. Blip Drip. Blood Dlood. Dead on the Bed. Boom Boom. Bang Bang. Now gone. Shattered like a monumental anthill in the rain.

No reason to get excited.
Life is but a joke.
Curl it around your tiny finger.

The speedometer complains furiously. Trees whiz past quite alarmingly. The world goes by. And you pull the handbrake. The car spins happily. The Epitaph of your dream with a crazy smile in your eyes. Bye Bye. You said.