Heady metropolis

So far as the eye could see, there was nothing to tell.

Little poppy-head yellow flowers caked the distance, and knowing my 30th year was approaching me, I bit into it. The flavor was yellow and mummy.

I was seated on the backseat of a city bus, and the cars went bumping along. The chairs were full of heads.

The older I got, the less I knew. Littler and littler did I know. Pretty soon I had a good feeling I knew nothing about everything.

The little poppy head on the left turned on its severed neck and flopped over. Fell on its side. I felt a little sorry for it, but what could I do. I wouldn’t have known what to do anyway. I’m not a doctor.

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I finally got my destination and the poppy head bus driver yanked the taxidermy-orange cord and a big bellow of smoke whistled out of the double engine’s bypass pipes. Stop’s here! I got off. There was only one building, brick and rural, and tumbleweed parking lot vacancies beside it to the left and the right. No telling what was going on in the river in the back, but you could hear it streaming. As I said, as far as the eye can see — nothing but heads.

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The shopkeeper opened the door for me and waved me in underhand, like a sinkerball pitcher. Each step I took, he and his shop got farther and farther away. Speeding up only slowed me down. Pretty soon they were so far off I would have had to yell if I had wanted to say anything, but honestly I didn’t much like yelling, so I stayed quiet. What was the point of all this walking? I sat down.

It started to rain.