Wonderful

Intricately, he weaved. I don’t know I’m not sure what weaving looks like so I’ll describe to you what it looks like in my brain head mind imagination instead. I imagine six five strings sprouting up from an invisible spot on the ground. The strings are definitely probably red, because red is one of my favourite colours. No Let us make the string the colours of the rainbow. The multi-coloured pentuplet quadruplet + 1 of strings went straight up past him like harp stings, and like a harpist, he played them. Except he was weaving. Intricately he strummed the strings, but instead of producing music somehow (I haven’t worked out this part yet) the strings intertwine at some point and form a tapestry. At least I think that’s what weavers create. :S [Tapestry is one of my favourite words, other words that are my favourite are ICOSAHEDRAL, TOTIPOTENT, MULTIPOTENT (part but not as much as totipotent), SOLILOQUY, WHIMSICAL, RAMBUMPTIOUSNESS, MUCHNESS, MARS LUMOGRAPH, PRINCESS TIGER LILY, SAKACHUWAIA(which I spelt perfectly correctly even though I didn’t know how it was spelt until!), WANDERLUST DIALOGUE, SPLAT AND POH. Words I do not like include (but is not  are not limited to) TRIPE, TROPE, TROUT, SWINE, NASAL, PLUNK, POSTHUMOUS, CARRION, MURRAIN and MANSLAUGHTER and many, many, many more]. {But now, back to what I was talking about before I got distracted discussing other, wonderful yet painstakingly painfully irreverent irrelevant things.} I imagine the man, huy who I do not know the name of to be sitting in an empty room, with a wooden floor (made of wooden floorboards, you can choose the colour of the wood for yourself, because I’m sure I like something different from you and ornate white walls and ceilings. You can tell that there is a big window behind him releasing ambient light into the room, but because your attention is on him with black hair and brown eyes, like a camera your eyes are focused on him and all you can see behind him is blurry, watercolour blotches of white and yellow and warm brown.

His name is POH, and he is WHIMSICAL and full of MUCHNESS.  I imagine myself dancing in that blurry out of focus bplace behind him, lost in the blotches of warm, yet cool hues. I am swimming in a see sea of antique white, sunflower yellow and warm light brown. I am full of RAMBUMPTIONESS as I dance like PRINCESS TIGER LILY forming ICOSAHEDRAL patterns, whilst SAKACHUWAIA sings and plays the drum I listen to the silent melody coming forth as he weaves with multi-coloured, quadruplet + 1 harp strings. His name is POH and for some reason he is Italian, and likes pasta, of course. I wonder what it is that he is weaving. I imagine a beautiful myriad of colours forming a multi-coloured technicoloured landscape. POH is TOTIPOTENT, and when I am around him I becomes MULTIPOTENT, and I feel like my life is no longer a wonderful yet lonesome SOLILOQUY, but unstead instead it is a DIALOGUE. My tear of joy goes SPLAT on the wooden floor. I am full of WANDERLUST. MARS LUMOGRAPH.

I remember a time in my backyard when I was stepping walking through the grass part past the shed when suddenly I felt something go squish under my foot. I assumed the worse. I own two dogs. But to my astonishment, on my foot was not what I expected (poo), but instead it was vibrant purple paint, Ultra-Violet – or maybe magenta. I was amazed, and pleased, and in wonderful wonderment.

I remember another time when the ice-cream man’s van crashed right outside our house. The van’s cheerful, familiar music tune continued to play, still inviting tempting little innocent children with its melodious spell. The truck was a little bit on fire. And all the melted ice-cream poured off out of the van, turning the street into a rainbow river of liquid sweetness, with the occasional island of semi-liquefied chocolate flakes or m&m’s smarties drifting by. The neighbourhood children were in paradise. With surfboards boogie-boards and other items usually reserved for the beach the children played in the gooey lukewarm substance, not only consuming it with greedy abandon but throwing it at each in the form of runny snowballs, not in an act of selfliss selfless generosity but also greedy abandon. None of the joyous children heard the old kind aged considerate loving husband lonely caring WHIMSICAL nice affectionate understanding peaceful alone quiet dying burning friendly ice-cream man screaming from inside the overturned van, as his voice was drained out by that cheerful, familiar tune (which he had heard for on 14139 years days of his life). A POSTHUMOUS examination discovered that the cause of death was not burning, but in fact drowning; he had drowned in delicious, rich, sugary, sweet, melted ice-cream, a deathly blend of 22 flavours, varying from mango to liquorice, a disgusting combination I know. Another disgusting discovery was made; that in the river of ice-cream, mixed in with the deliciously sweet substance,(before it was consumed entirely by the children) were would have been particles of the dying man himself; blood, skin, hair, urine, tears. Ever feel like you are writing a story you have read or written before?

Intricately, he continued to weaved.

“Are you God” I asked “POH, are you God!?!”

Intricately, he continued to weave.

L

“This is TRIPE, or TROPE, or TROUT, SWINE, NASAL, CARRION, MURRAIN or I’m not sure!” PRINCESS TIGER LILY stabbed me with her spear as SAKACHUWAIA hit her drum. My heart went PLUNK, down the drain. Down one of those American drains with the shredder thingy’s. I now look at the world POSTHUMOUS.

Any connection to any events or people in the real world is purely coincidental. This is not one of those stories where the author justs writes about themselves and then pretends they’re someone else who is them but slightly different or better because that is lame and has been done a thousand times and SO unoriginal. This is not at all inspired by anything; it has no connection to that name that says that someone wrote this story. And this is not fictional, it is non-fictional. It is not a story it is the real world and you are looking into a miniature world where things happen differently. And I am real but I am not the author there is no author because no one wrotes this story because it is not a story it is real, if you went to the Library this book would be found in the non-fiction section. This is real, do not believe the lie that this story nonfiction world me author things happen differently a thousand times just writes about themselves and because no one wrote this story because if you went to the library it would be non-fictional is a lie. In fact there is a mistake at the library because what you are reading is not a book but another plant planet with its own God named POH. So don’t you dare throw this (real) world in the bin, or through down one of those American shredder sink hole thingies, because if you do you will kill me, and I don’t want to die.

Please don’t kill me. JL
Please don’t kill me.
Please don’t kill me.
Please do not kill me.
J L L L L LL L
Please not me.
Please don’t kill me.
Please do kill me.
Please kill me.
Please me.
Please kill.
Plea do kill me.
Plea kill me
Plea do kill.
Do kill.
Not me.
Kill.
Kill me.
Me.
Plea.
J
MANSLAUGHTER

Ever feel like you are writing a story you have read or written before?

Intricately, he weaved.