Connect the dots in this scribble

We are going to play a game and see if you can connect the dots. 

Some dots seem weirdly away from each other, but that is because the trails were lost. Supply lines, that diminish and vane away, left then without manner to communicate with the next tower. The next dot.

That is somewhat silly. How awkward he felt, when found that the waves were travelling south somehow. To bad country. The dots were becoming sparser. The dot was a people that inhabited the vacant slots in the slums in new guinea. Which is the main exporter of documentaries. An industry that is source of the rising documentary stars in that country, after boxoffice hits like ‘’Rwanda: An ode to the holocaust.’’, ‘’Humanity’s sins: There are millions of citizen, in congo without access to fresh water’’, ‘’The Mugabe dictatorship reaction to the political turmoil of ‘93‘’, ‘’Tuberculosis: the silent killer’’, ‘’Disentery: the loud killer, ‘’The vaccine shortage in Ethiopia made my family die of cholera’’ and who could forget, ‘’Crazy scrawny bitches with their tits hanging, while covered in flies.’’ This news might reach you in a bit of a harsh way. Because as the dots got sparser, the game grew difficult.  But that just how the game is played. Without care for taste or any other criteria. There are no criteria. There are only dots. We should not linger here. This is bad country.

Birds flew over the market. She knew her time was up.

Wild west high noon. Childish curiosity.

You are one of us, or none of them. And being one of them was also not nice, because of the crazy nymphos that rode the salad bar through the difficult and perilous mountains of domesticated house pets stored in the exorcism. The Freudian crisscrossed and mismatched information conveyer spluttered that the truth lived in the sidelines. Life was the search of a piece of glory ribbon in yellow, like a flower that majestically stood over the fields of france’s warmonger Jules le Pierre Marçou de Junot Manet le Maricon du France.

Insanity flowed like a river though him. Tearing the sureties out of his brain. Replacing them with new viewpoints, in a mind hungry for time. It consumed time, raged through time, like an accelerated chemical reaction lighting the darkness for a few moments of glorious visions, beautiful, yet sudden, too sudden for complete recollection. All that was left was the illusion of brilliancy.

Insane is what insane does.

Insane is what insane does.

The clows entertain the mob. The insane entertain only themselves.

 I’ve got to lie down now. For I fell a bit lightheaded. Maybe you should drive.