Left eye hovering above a distressed butterfly lingering close to a bygone scarab and pyramid. Right angle measures the meticulous tower fit together by rock upon rock of misshapen stones. A cracked tambourine hustles to its next gig catching dreams.
An arrow flies over the head of a straight lipped parson with unkempt hair and wide brim hat staring into the eye of a misplaced octopus in front of a still bow.
A thick-hipped dancer dodges a blobby ball containing a DNA double helix model, long 3D rectangle, and an 8 looking at a 6.
Two cardinals play drums in front of a shining diamond.
Two blue-eyed birds with with red bodies and brown wings and tails fly effortlessly below through dark blue clouds. Storms ahead appear assured.
Silver-eyed, heart-faced alien with T-shaped antennas, yellow skin and stick-like feet with pointy ears and a straight grin, or was it a grimace or a smize? That’s what Ned described to anyone who listened about what he saw that night.
People say Ned never walked the same.
Triangular mountain peaks shaded to varying degrees of gray horizontal lines.
Green, silvery jellyfish beached on pure white sands beset by a giant rainbow colored snail hurtling towards a triangular purple and blue butterfly floating in a dark sky cut by prying eyes of a lost soul above a peeking golden elephant right of a rug catching the fading rays of an auburn sun never comfortable with this land.
It’s about time the minion soldier beats the action hero.
A spongy star rides a shiny black plastic pen full of ink for pouring out ideas. A camouflaged writing implement fails its purpose, sadly standing out from the grainy brown stained wood built for working. Cheap lollipops lounge on beige masking tape near a blue mousepad supporting a box of 5000 silver metal staplers ready to be loaded as ammunition into the strategically placed stapler. Pink adhesive post notes wait for a message, scribble or note to occupy their bare layer, ready to stick to anything valid, hoping to avoid the permanent slaughter if lost to the rubbish bin. A box of No. 10 Self-Sealing Security Envelopes lingers wondering if they will be the one successfully carried to literary agents and publishers, or will it only survive briefly as an SASE ready to be ripped up in frustration by its anticipating recipient?