Muddy Thoughts On a Rainy Sunday

The day is industrial olive oil. Mudfish thrash on the shores of thought. I grin a lot with my eyes, grinners return my eyes to me - no one wants them. The morning's dull certainty haunts me like a lugubrious condor, wet ropes of laden gravity drag me around. Nothing irritates me more than nothingness. Ghost-talk filters through a sluggish ennui even the ghosts are boring. The mudfish have had enough, they are heading back to the ocean. They know it’s a rainy Sunday. My sludgy shores are full of killer shrimp waiting for the squelch of something fresh to arrive.