Today I met the people that live at the bottom of my left lung. They're all the way down at the tip, a mother and her adult son. I'd met them once before, though only briefly. The son was happy to see me, the mother a bit standoffish. We had tea, though it was somewhat awkward and tense. I did not stay long.
Speaking of left, there is a distant happy place far off to the left. It's so far away it looks like a grain of sand from here. The space between here and there looks like black silk, as if the happy place is at the bottom of an enormous black silk bag. But as I said, it's off to the left. I can just barely make out a lazy river meandering its way between here and there...
In the lawn to the left of my house lives a perplexing thing. Just sitting there in the grass causing confusion. It is a color not quite purple, but nearly grayish. Your eyes just kind of slide off of it as you try to figure out what it is. It's hard to focus on it, visually or mentally. And it gives you a weird vibe. Not really a bad vibe, but definitely odd none the less. It cannot be described as cubic, angular, or organic in shape. The mind has great difficulty wrapping itself around the perplexing thing. I think it has been growing, but it is difficult to measure -- in any way. Other than that, it seems harmless. I tend to forget it is there. Until I have to go to the back yard that is, and as I'm walking around the house -- there it is making a valiant effort to confuse all passers by. I'd say it's doing a remarkably good job of that, but a better location would help it be more effective.
I turn to the south and recall that pickles are the epitome of evil.
"Relax in the ship's lounge whilst I conjure up a potion. This is something I learned how to make in Spain", he lied. He had never been to Spain. We debated the origin of the ingredients as he added them to the great vat on his left. "What do you think the orangy greenish stuff is?" I asked. "I� I don't know, but I don't like the looks of it." It did indeed seem dubious. We listened to the harmony of the winds as he stirred the concoction with an icky reed from the lake. At this point we made our excuses and a hasty departure. "But this is a family recipe!" he protested as we dropped quickly downward.
Having escaped certain mixological disgust, we then found ourselves on a vast floodplain. The ground was dry and cracked. Thunderbirds were in the sky. Every time one of them flew through a cloud there was a sudden crash of thunder. You'd think it would deafen them. It did not seem as if it would rain however, so we spread our wings and flew. Soon we came to the great sea and dove in. Sprites accompanied us in the water as we swam, searching in vain for the plot of this stupid story.
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