A man ran the faucet and hair came out. It did not go down the drain like water would have. He then turned off the faucet and scooped the hair into a plastic sandwich bag. His hands smelled funny after that, but he had no means of washing them. At the same time, in a bustling market of one-hundred three degrees Fahrenheit, two sweaty merchants quarreled over cages of restless chickens. Spit and feathers filled the air. And dust. Everything was covered in a settled layer of desert dust, washing the scenery in a spicy orange haze. Even the people were dusty. The spit they spat was colored with dust. They all must have had horrible tastes in their mouths, and that is precisely what made them all so irritable. There aren’t any left now. Sergeant Money lit a Cuban in his five-by-five-by-five cubicle. He bit his thumb and ripped off a cuticle. He blew smoke across the screen that shipped men overseas. He oversees the deaths of countless comrades. He goes home to his bruised fuckdoll and turns on the television static. She lies there unresponsive but she’s only being pragmatic. A funky odyssey of colors and sound drills through the eyes and ears and pierces the mind with utter brilliance. It illuminates. It elevates. It takes consciousness on a roller coaster of ups and downs, connecting into an impossible yet completely logical circle, leaving the psyche quaking in exuberance. A new passion of learning and experiencing is sparked. It ignites a jumbled, tangled fuse, beautiful and spectacular while burning, but once it’s all gone one realizes it was attached to nothing. One soon forgets the dancing shadows and vibrant spectacles, and the world catches up and knocks one down. One ends up back on the couch with a bag of potato chips and a confused expression on his face. One becomes zero.
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