Three separate moments, a simultaneous jumble of far-flung joss sticks, about thirty seconds apart run parallel in marathon time. Who knew things could misalign so perfectly? Yet not surprisingly, the bizarro neighbors straight from an unfinished manuscript are aghast nonetheless.
She pauses and swallows, every meal a Poseidon adventure. Water rushes in, washing away the coral reef, turns and explodes in an upward stream-of-consciousness.
The technician deftly moves the mouse connected by antique plugs to a snowy black and white glass tube and the pixelated image glows, a checkered pattern of visualized Morse code causing eyes to wander. Chutzpah four inches long presages the next coming. On the tarmac each moniker is aflame, shot to pieces over the Pacific. In unison, ghosts shout, "Tora! Tora! Tora!"
Asleep, it crackles a spark and then goes black.
Therefore life is good, Charlie Brown.
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