Let’s say you deserved it. You walked a billion miles and once skipped the starbucks. How sad, how tragic and melancholic. Dirt on your shoes, cold on your shoulders. This may not be your luckiest day, let’s say you mean it this time.

Maybe your sentences shouldn’t have started with maybes. Maybe life could go better with a bag of herbal teas. Who knows my friend. Maybe I’m not even your friend. Probably I’m not even close to be your friend. How upsetting, how disturbing and what a lonely feeling. La and La. Let’s think about this rest of the day and pity on our wet lashes.

Or we could go outside and enjoy the sunshine. I know I sound confusing, but don’t I always? I like to mix your minds up as I like a whole brain salad out of heads of monkeys. We deserve this my dearest friend. We can do anything we want, without election, selection or a smiling erection. We can do this. Just take your buts out and put your sunglasses on. Today we sing along the steps. More steps, more calories and for a tiny belly button. Repeat after me, hurray hurray bump the sides away. Thank you.

Tragic I bumped into him again. One step right, one step left, one step right, no way I could avoid him. Magnet in his eyes, hitting my brains inside, taking my eyes out, dropping my guts all over the place. Standing in front of me, listening to bla bla songs on his sell fish ear full of speakers. Loudly, so maybe he did not even hear me.

One step left and right again. There is no way to escape, run away, disappear or burst into microscobic pieces, translucent your body, experience an astral dimension full of hamburgers. You wouldn’t need that anyway. She thinks with a maximized tiny voice, laughter is a famous rapper, talking is too over rated, nobody can stand her with boobs x-rated. So she takes of her shirt, sparkles on his eyes, he hits the floor in disguise, she runs away in her bat mobile, topless on a rainy sunday afternoon. A glass of champaigne was it in her hands?

“Here he is, standing in the middle of the street, not around me anymore.” She thinks. This is heaven this is summertimes this is a great holiday. Waves back to his siluettes, he realize nothings yet. She keeps walking until she regrets, not this time but once a day, in the mornings, feels like an after pill and perfects. Super bun hide me and make me never wake.

Welcome to my forest. My forest is the biggest. My forest is the wildest. The climate is always brightest. I can see your hands moving over the lands, picking pine apples and fine turtles along their way. Fast and curious, yummy with a glamorous essence, welcome to my forest. Here I live and crumble, perfectly as tidy waves.

This is the living room and here is the kitchen. Cabinets made of .pdf, water is by the lake, my fridge can hold two giraffes and a birthday cake. Would you like to see my bedroom, once a week I try to vacuum, please continue, here is my bathroom. Inside there is a planetarium, jakuzi is full of cornflakes, an ape and some epiderium. Step over the green carpet, walk around the wallpapers, you enter into your cave, find your power animal and jump between the cables. This years fashion, is made of pillows and cushion.

And at last, we visit the tv room. Lost inside the screen, daisies in your hands. What a lovely evening, what a lovely dress. Welcome to my police, my city full of solice. Would you care for a tea, maybe some coffee or anything really? Welcome to my forest, please don’t mind the florest. Welcome to my forest, the biggest, the wildest and the loneliest. Please stay.

Late man show on a morning base dusty studio. Today our minimal guest is the non-oscar winning “Henry Fonduman”. Henry is also known as the last spider on the universe who can actually knit an actual web.

- So Henry, you really can knit? Is it true?

- Yes it is Sam, I knit the best and the well only web in the world.

- That’s amazing Henry, but we want to know.. How do you do it?

- It’s not pretty hard Sam. I just think about knitting and viola!

- Incredible folks, you heard the man, he just thinks about it.

The sensible show ends late that morning. Henry returns to his humble apartment floor and sit on his couch with an edgy feeling. The phone rings…

Da da Da da

Da da Da da

- Hello?

- Is this Henry Fonduman?

- Yes, speaking…

- Mr. Fonduman I want to talk with you about your hands, how amazing your hands are and all your eyes, how shiny they look out and also how you gracefully knit your way up through the golden webs. Beautiful Sir! just amazing. But what would happen if you broke a finger? or even lost a significant hand of yours? maybe an eye injury on the way to the forest one sunday afternoon for a picnic? what about a bear? Mr. Henry… Never underestimate a bear!

- What do you suggest than?

- Insurance Mr. Fonduman. Life time platinum covered, sugar and spiced insurance. For only 99 penies a day, you could insurance your incredible talent so if something happens to your precious sparky life, we take care of you and be your best friend.

- I will think of it.

- I can come right now to your house and we could close the deal with a cupcake!

- No, thank you.

- But Mr. Fonduman!

- Call me Henry.

- Err Henry, what about your sweet sweet fingertips, what about your future!

- My future is my business, thank you and bye.

Dat Dat Dat

Dat Dat Dat

Later that call, Henry lied on the couch upside down, started knitting his last web. Next day headlines said “Fonduman fondu himself”. And that was the story of the last spider, who could actually knit. Not a great bedtime story. Thank you, and bye.

Beck to morning. Hearing voices. Wake up, walk around, fall asleep on my screen. Last time I checked, you were six. I tagged your hair good, sweet and sad. You clicked on my window, snow came in. Last time we met, you dropped your icecone on my dress.

Air drops on my face. Smelling fishy thoughts. Get up, stand up, jump over my shoelaces. Last time I checked, you were twelve. I hacked your internet fast, easy and mad. You kicked my wall, fire came in. Last time we met, you were riding a giant big fat worm express.

A radio in my head. Touching wet things. Lay down, lay under, crawl in my dream. Last time I checked you were eighteen. I washed your car inside, outside and all over. You hit me on the face, paint my rest. Last time we met, it was just a disaster.

Badly drawn girl, see me after class. Study steady work hard, hit the bell, run away fast. Last time I checked, you were thirsty one. Ironing your pants, shirts and vests, maybe you deserved the best. You shaved your beard, the evil doctor left. Last time we met, I stumbled upon, you held my hands tight.

This is now. Blue bird flies over an ocean. Ocean is big. Bigger than blue. Blue bird is transparent on wet waters. If she gets lost, nobody can find her way.

Time to time. She is aware of little islands, behind her feet, dust on her shoes. Horses on the shore, free and perfect. How free can you be, if you stand on an island. How free can you be, if you keep staying on earth. Nobody is free, blue bird knows that. She is like free, when over the big blue ocean, when she is close to lost, far away to ride the horses.

Yesterday evening. Blue bird is tired. She lands on a dirty island. She takes off her shoes, runs across the woods. The ocean is too big, the island is too small. Once she stares above. She knows the clouds that are not there. She needs them to stay right there. She should wait there, until the clouds run away. Waters keep to sway, her off the air, into his eyes she says:

“Now, you’r not at home. Call it a holiday, lay down indefinitely.”