ten to one

**Author's note: this is an exercise called "Dada Monologue". Nothing means anything.

Red mitten wandered in to my life like a wind blowing the dogs from the trees and their booing at the stadium wrecked my feet and shoes and slowly slid into the mud of conscience and tethers. How was Frak to know which apples at the stand to sample in my hurried hunger for the news and carpet laid at my street lantern? No amount of peas could quel the raging tide of princes and frogs in my stock pile of grass and hair.
Where have all the windows gone? Why is candy like a box of lifesaving whales who dig until the channel is broken? We'll never understand the secret of my fingers.