Recreator

I'll have one piece of Oscar Mayer balogna, a Kraft Single, and mayonnaise all between two pieces of Wonder Bread, and I'll cut it in half down the middle. I'll bike down to the marina, pull out my magic wallet, and always have five dollars (and I'll use that money to get a Sprite and Caramello). I'll go swimming and feel the bats flying inches from my face. After that I'll sit drying in front of Austin Powers with an Orange Slice, even though they do not make them anymore.

I will walk into the woods, and the fallen tree will be my home. I'll carve sticks into knives, daggers, swords, and spears. I'll wear down grooves, make tiny darts, and store them all in the tree's hollow. I've been out here for years, I am a myth, a legend, they've been hunting me and they'll continue to hunt because I cannot be captured. I am far too skilled. I'll try my first cigarette, because I'm not me, I'm someone else. I'll still hate it though.

I'll look up at the stars and wonder if they're looking back. If the pyramids really were always there. If I'm only in an imagination. I'll think about the billions of imaginations inside that imagination, and imagine what it might be like to imagine an imagination. This will hurt.

I'll sleep with my door open. I'll turn on the lamp. I'll read Calvin & Hobbes until I can't remember the last page I read, and only then will I sleep. I could get up early but I'll sleep in late, microwave some bacon, pour Raisin Bran Crunch, drink a large glass of orange juice. I'll try the coffee and drink it black because that's what I'm supposed to do.

What am I supposed to do? With the schedules and timetables and cargo shorts all gone. The bicycle dusty and sold, the water green, the wallet empty. With what I know of science and sugar will there ever be days as glorious as those?

I can keep my lamp on. I can look at the panels; the tiger, the faces, the snowballs, the wagon. I can remember my wagon. I can pray to God, or the stars, or the pyramids, that my mother's kept it safe.