Substitution for Purpose
In accordance with everything being a version of something else, I seem to have all the properties of a spiral staircase. Specifically the design at the center of my grandfather's house in Maine that I never saw.
"Half my life is built completely in my mind, like scenarios from ideas and images."
"It isn't exactly uncommon," I said, exhaling frigid breath intermingled with a chest full toxins that I've recently been trying to give up. "But it does explain why I actually only know about six of the fifty people attending my graduation."
Then the rain extinguished my distraction so I made a comment about the accentuated vibrancy of colors in my dreams recently, to which she replied, "No, that's not what I mean. I'm not talking about real dreams, they don't have a purpose."
I had a vicious rebuttal flowing from my twitching mind to the tightening of my limbs, but I swallowed it. I cleared my throat and pulled back my soaked hair, lit a new cigarette and focused my attention on her foggy willow tree which I decided would be a good muse for a poet.
"Fine, then I'm a blighty lunatic."