I thought to myself while standing on the side of the road that justice is but fiction and the only truth lies in what remains unsaid. The cars filter in a line and disappear into the vast expanses of unchartered highway between here and there. The shrubs are dancing in the breeze and the trees sway to a sublime beat. Where is autumn? The leaves are merely waiting to die and fall to the ground in a blaze of colour. The streetlights buzz their grievances yet who would stop to heed their warnings. The letters arrive as though they had been sent in a great coincidence of time, and the mail box overflows like a waterfall. The birds speak binary in these parts of the country and the inflatable ducks pretend to eat the bread that the old people persistently throw in the pond. I sit beside the fountain speaking French, waiting for someone to notice that the pavement has turned to glue and my feet are sinking into the void thus created. I float between the adjectives to create a new day. The clock was blinking three in the morning all night. Tell me, where is this promised treasure? Is it buried under the spot marked x? No, it's too obvious; it must be under the spot with the big n instead. I had a dream that mushrooms were growing on my feet. Their roots buried themselves deep inside of me and entwined with my nerves. It's odd how similar we are to plants yet we would never be willing to admit such a resemblance.

Faces flicker behind my eyes whenever I feel brave enough to let my eyelids fall into place. The smell of turpentine floats about in the air like I am supposed to care what happens tomorrow. I tried to paint a picture of what I was feeling and it ended up as a violent clash between the oranges and purples trying to leap off the canvas and back into my head. Their random queries were too much for a person like me to handle. Do I really want to restrict myself to such foolery in this damn heat? The words fry on the pavement like a battered eggplant and everything that ever mattered is sprinkled on the lawn. Green, green, green – does your lawn look green enough? The air smells like lilacs and the lawn is grass-scented today. My garden blooms in full Technicolor and I can't tell the weeds from the ones that are actually supposed to be plants. The stars strive for perfection yet the only thing of value that they can find is a soliloquy scrawled in mustard on the back of my chair. Why do all your words sound like relish? I walk down the street and watch the imagined scenery I have super-imposed in my own mind roll by. I count my steps like frames in a film, trying to avoid stepping on any of the characters.

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