The days just melt together now. The hotness, the nothingness, the empty void of day where responsiblities used to sit and twiddle their thumbs and bang on the cieling with broomsticks to make me do all those boring things I don't like to do.
"See anything new in there, buddy?" says Mr. Happy Puppet Head. He's floating over me looking down where I'm lying fetal position on the sidewalk. His mustache looks funny from this angle. "Maybe something about where my dinner's coming from tonight?"
He's talking about how all I do now is stare into the balloon. Kind of like a habit. For hours and hours I'll just gaze into that bottomless blue that is my balloon of destiny. It just goes on and on, like the reflection of a mirror, on and on and on and on. I love it so.
"I hate you, you know." He's looking the other away. I can tell he's holding back some tears, his voice is shaking a little. "You're... You're... I hate you so much." He's just sore that I gave his smooth jazz collection away.
"Shhh." I tell him. "Shhhhh."
"I hate you..." he sobs. He's full-on crying now.
I stand up. "Shhh... fret not. The balloon told me something. It's so simple, so beautiful... a revelation that will jar the world from its axis... Mr. Happy Puppet Head, soothe your woes." Tears now stream from my eyes. "A new dawn is upon us, the light glimmering down from the heavens will blind us to any and all that is not of the upmost purity. We are born again! My friend, we are born again..."
"Wait..." Mr. Happy Puppet Head sniffs. "What?"
"The balloon! We must gather a crowd, a mass of people so that I may preach mine epiphany to their starving ears, their hearts, their very immortal souls! But how? How does one raise a mass big enough to learn unto them this divine prophecy? How? Oh Ultimate Most Supreme of Beings, grant me but a sliver of your infinite wisdom and I'll invent for us a method to gather such a crowd!"
"Wait..." Mr. Happy Puppet Head looks confused. "What? Why are you talking so weird?"
"Oh! I almost forgot our electronically broadcasted television program! Fortuna! All is not lost, my dear, dear compatriate, for we have at our disposal that which is the most powerful tool of communication this world has yet to witness!" I swish my cape with pinache, style, elegance, and power as I turn away from my floating puppet friend and yell over my shoulder, "No! All is not lost! All is not lost by quite a ways! Follow me!" And I trollop down the long and twisting sidewalk, mine evisceraly ensconced heels clolopping hither and thither down said pathway, their echoing melodically traversing from one prime surface to the next such a way immenseley reminicent of the beat of one's heart. Like a really big heartbeat. While holding my balloon.
"Wait..." Mr. Happy Puppet Head calls after me. "What?"