During the Brevity of Clarity Frederick Thinks to Himself in Third Person
Notice the severe overbite of the imbecile, Fredrick. Watch the droplets of spit disconnect and fall like overripe berries, combine into large globules, and divide just as suddenly. At the neck, what a comical scene, these drips seem to be splashing wits. Ha, Ha! Some are even racing, bumping and tussling one another causing great watery destruction! At the chest, watch as the drips grow farther apart, setting up certain scenes for singular collisions of the rare kind that do not splash or separate. Indeed, it’s not impossible, only mere chance two droplets could reach similar velocities and combine harmoniously so far from the source. Ah, and at the groin, what good news. They’re still clutching and swirling together. But at the knee airborne particles tear pieces from the droplet and wind weathers, leaving a trail of mist behind. Oh, woe! Does it have to end? Must it disintegrate and fall!
Then a stalk of grass catches the wind encapsulated spit, as if only for that particular droplet, like a mitt catches a ball. It rolls sparkling, while celebratory bubbles dance with festive effervescence giving off the scent of forgotten food. Then what once was a crystal luster quickly clouds as it collects the dirt landing in a heap of long-stagnant droplets, and in time dissipates.