When life gives you lemons, take the hat

The sit down is a stew. It’s a slow stew on the stool. What’s with this song?

This song. It’s been been played too much, too much to the point to the point it’s not just lost it’s not just lost, it’s oblivious to oblivious to whatever appeal to whatever appeal it had. Once.

Once. It appalls him. Appalls. Is that too strong a word? Permit me to say no. Permission granted. No. May he? He may. He might win back its appeal with few subtle changes. Might he? Let’s see. Let’s.

“Let bits flee, let bits flee where there’ll be no answers.” It’s funny – funny strange – how he made the cliché more, more absurdly clichéd. And it’s funny... funny. How? Funny how after all this time nothing’s changed but the faces – theirs not his. His was always the clown’s... odd.

Oddly, time didn’t stop, but it did make a loop. Time looped in slot-machine cherry, orange and lemon. It whirred by and it doesn’t stop, not even when their faces blur. They aren’t even faces now.

Now? What are they? They’re blurs, blurs nothing more nothing more than blurs, and what’s funny what’s funny strange is so so is he. A blur.

A blur and nothing more nothing more than a blur until until he picks up the hat.

He picks up the hat the hat he didn’t wear here he didn’t wear it here but he’ll take it he’ll take it with him he’ll take the hat with him when he goes when he goes now. Now. He’s gone.