The clocks ticked over to a new day, as the stampede of great grey mammals came roaring down the road. A drummer got crushed. I couldn’t help but wonder what his last worry was, dieing, getting pooped on, or just some possessive crap about a hot drink. Maybe a thought about the pollution in some lake with a weird name?

The stampede has reached the favelas. The number of people in those shacks is etched into my memory. A dagger struck my heart as I remembered where she was. I wanted to continue with my anger, but I had a quest to undertake.

My mind was falling apart, revealing some sort of mayan underworld. I’ve done a lot of things, and most of them were put off for a long time, like the final acts of a mourning pirate. The ground rose up, like some smelly plant to carry you to a giant’s keep.

I kept trying to tell myself that it was a lie, trying to slot the images into a brighter future, but the misfortune kept piling on. And I just look down from the heavens, the creator on his own.

Kinda ironic, eh?