Places I've been that I'll Never go
There's places I've been that I'll never go, because I've been trapped in this forest since the Dawn of time, which was When I came to it after everything else was destroyed, which was when I was Born. I've been dead for a thousand years. When I left the forest I'll come down to the river and wait for my Shot, and when I was done doing waiting I went Back to the House (the Old House) and started Waiting for when you Got back to me; before I ditched you by the Side of the Road (the Fork In The Road) and considered us all open to enter every single option for Entering; over and over again, we compared and Compared and COMPARED them over and over; there were too many to Stay And Count so I'm leaving and you'll catch up to me in a bit I Guess. I've been dead for a thousand years.
I've been Counting Time many times and this forest is full of creatures like me sustained on the water that leaks out of the green sky canopy and the charred meat this planet is at least partially Based on. It tastes a little Acidic though. When we got back together, we'll buy a motorcycle, and then we're going to drive through the door: the one we didn't get a chance to Consider because it was too far Down from Everything Else, but at Last we're at Least we're going someplace instead of standing around. I'll feed you (tea and oranges) (orange tea) (orange tease) (taste tease) this bag of cookies I bought which is obviously kinda unhealthy but hey, that's why they gave me the money before they left. We think we're going to live in this box, this cardboard box, but when the trees shook their sweat from the leaves of skin it got soaked and it's breaking down, and then those breakdancers come along and their shoes scuff it to dust and it peels away from the floor with all the subtlety of a plastic bandage tearing off a tender tendril. I've Been Dead For A Thousand Years. The worst part is the ripping: because the rip noise comes out of my mouth. Let's travel Together: let's take a quick journey down my throat. There's a correlation here between being swallowed and putting yourself in a drawer: for a little While, let's live in among the Socks, safe and warm in the thread count (Threat Count) of thousands of hundreds (hungered) (Hunted) of thousands of Thousands of
<Don't interrupt me when I'm trying to kill something,> he has to remind me. I can't help it, can't help myself. When you spend as much time in the company of a psychic as I do, you start to connect to the minds of others, and I haven't got the built-in receptor shields that he does. It flows in weird ebbs of freeform thought, almost like poetry, and I can't sort out which of them are his and which are mine, or if we're sharing them, or if part of it comes from the big slow herbivore from which he's trying to rip the throat veins. Probably, yes: it's close to death now (very close) (damn
close) (synonyms for 'said') and in all likelihood its mental state is confused and rushed. When you die, your whole mind lights up, burning all the information it can into your long-term memory, just on the off-chance you survive somehow and it needs to refer back to the time you almost ate it (bit it) (bought a Piece) ("took it on the chin") to remind itself, "don't do THAT again." I know that because I died once, right before I met Clarence. He likes telling me he's been dead for a thousand years, even though we both know neither of us could've possibly been alive that long. He's the psychic wolf I'm watching try to bring this thing down so we can have supper.