My printer cartridge face was low on ink.
Woodwork Wednesday’s resurfaced, pacing my
breath like a cross-country runner chased by
Frankenstein’s monster. Swimming gala’s drowned
my confidence. Binary Normans charged through
my spleen, mashing the past into now. The
stench of lumpy custard seeped out as I
waited. Last rites were performed by tortured
artists bullied by convention. Dali
walked in. My CPU was far too high.