Marijuana induced short story which I plan on finishing over a couple episodes of getting baked.
Story of the Psychic Flower
At nightend there was a dysfunctional meteor, between Ted & Chainsaw, heading for the monument. Nothing moves within the confines of these selfish chambers; not even a parasite, with all its imperfections. The parasite is long, its a relentless blood beetle who slimes the place of outward air. It bulges with the force of a rebound thunder, and shares with you his droppings of yellow nectar slime drooling from the fecal hole of a pink wriggler. I must escape the boundaries of my eternal clause, but do so with tranquility and grace. Twice the feeling of unmatched anger surged through the walls of my chamber.
Exceptions without rules are punishments. An episode of grace may be to ride the western wind as an obstacle. Thrills of joyous laughter ignite my flacid winglets. But what to do when wrinkles pick up, awe is a nighttime of terror, and my backs are broken from the bends? Your limbs are steadfast, and regrow easily. Terror is a figment of your imagination, it's not real. You are safely tucked in the corner of your yard.
My favorite special place is a gold ray sunshine. I stretch my leaves & coil them in air. Bees of safety scare the change away. I take up my space valiantly. A glass of running water at the spray of a button. I shine my pedals like trophies. I am not afraid of my front side nettles. I am a model light.
The tremor of a lawn mower blade is gnawing through the dirt around.
to be continued