Windmills

He was withdrawing; inside his eyes he cleaned the glass of his spectacles they were worn thin now and only looked inward. Nuclear weapons were threatening the circuitry of a million neurons, a conceptual forest of wooden perceptions had been targeted by alien guineapigs, helmeted ants were excavating his mind. He muttered a question to himself: What's a guy to do when the world locks you out. even, attacks your long held reality? What gives when the rope has no more 'give' in it? He called his dead mother (the cell phone was really that smart), she replied from the outer-rings of some milky nowhere. "You should get out more," said the ethereal voice of the dearly departed, "stop writing ambiguous and quixotic letters to yourself." "Mayb tomorrow," he replied uncertainly, then he put the phone back into its shock-proof bunker at the deepest center of his hive-humming brain.