Lynch, Palm, Island.

Frightened by his own sentimental mind he drops everything he has with mouth agape. Looking out of tearstained eyes at dazzling island melodies, sun sharpened knives of light and color tear through the palm fronds sheltering the temperate dreams trembling in his skull. The tropical climate makes him mad. Those around him play cards, tend yards, bleat "howdy 'pard." He's caught in a lowly intermission of thought: Nothing keeps this sun alive except salt water drunks. Snapping back to the parasol of reality, he wonders what he's been doing here in the middle of the ocean calm on drugs and edgy with panic. He's even further on his way to an even further panic. A further destination. Condensed experience melts down into wisdom, he tells himself, and the conveyor belt of mundane dribble he's been working on for years won't abide any character development. "This won't change a thing, these worldy pursuits." says the tired midget starved with chicken wing dangling inches from mouth. The midget that inhabits his soul. The little guy so warm inside with self doubt. So he was here to make amends with the lifeless existence he'd been living. He was here to wonder aloud, with strangers staring, what all those glistening babies that were his cherished memories had grown up to be. They may be drunk rumbling castaways tearing apart fabric with mangled cogs of hands; society reeling for an answer for this madness. They may be tight little curls on a young, affluent women's hair style; bobbing as more money changes hands. They may be burning an effigy cast alight for fear of losing the keys that once entered upon sanity. They may have never even been born, those trembles: to think, I've done nothing but sit here for the bite of worrisome thought. I've done nothing but hold out my hand, asking for change. The sun beats him down, his face is withered paper, his hands are kids gloves. The salt licks up and down his legs, leaving a floe of silt like purposeful snow banks upon an ancient river. Frozen, or wishing to be, he doesn't want this equatorial climate taking his moments for a malarial ride much longer. Deciduous thoughts are raining down on him like tattered leaves from a long gone elm in November. He faces towards the bottom of the world and he gasps.