Stream of Consciousness

A ghost devours the magnetism which permeates Blake's aluminum can gazebo. The solar-powered lights along the brick path glow all in a row. Two faceless nighttime compatriots, redolent of ancient wisdom, whisper to one another about the moon and the rockets that fly there. They speak, "The distance between atoms never nears absolute zero. And, O, how the minimalist hero did walk granny across the road, even carrying her groceries up the stoop." Blueprints for tomorrow's flavors of geometry tumble beneath the desk of the resident genius of the Rosewood complex. He hums to the flow of the heat at his feet in the air ducts inside the floor. Big words don't come to the genius, only perfect small yarn balls of silent unspooling wisdom. He easily winds it back into a ball with each iteration of unspooling it. He is no fool. He only needs to sit up straight to exhibit his greatness. Out his shivering window the first snow of the year descends into wet drifts on the liquid smoke corporate headquarters' berm. Make sense? The true location of this sketch is elsewhere, shifting through potent dimensions, all singing the golden math melodies of the spheres of Pythagoras. You know Pythagoras, right? Right angles of triangles make for great ramps for you to launch into the formulating of great ideas as you burn the midnight oil. Luck trundles through the vents, through the mesh of this time drama. This time drama fattens men. This time drama withers the old person's vitality. The seasons are juggernauts. The businessman is an astronaut now who has a never-ending greed for the cheese on the moon. Meanwhile, Felix falters with his exotic name, but still has a healthy determination for lending a hand to the establishment of a vibrant tomorrow. Goodnight now.