Sharing and Piloting

I stopped sharing but kept reading this last year. I wrote some things with a pen and I placed the notebook back on my bookshelf when I finished, respectfully sliding it in between an unread The Pale Kings by David Foster Wallace and a free issue of Spanish Vogue I got from work. Brahms and Berlioz bellowed laments of loss and longing into my cozy carpeted rooftop abode, straight from the bottoms of their immortal digitized souls that haunt the apses and naves of YouTube.

A man was driving a car from the sky the other day. A driverless car, piloted by remote from a low-floating hot air balloon. The car was out of control, and everyone on the road was drunk. Those who weren't drunk had smoked too much pot and drove much too slowly. A pickup sideswiped the car, and a force from the sky pulled the hot air balloon up in to a spiral motion as the driverless car spun out of control in circles, the two tied elementally in the dance. The car came to rest in a field. Jesus was playing the electric guitar to a crowd of about seventy-thousand that had congregated in the field. The pilot in the hot air balloon, suffering vertigo and disorientation, waited, terrified, as the joyous sounds faded below him. He waited for the end as the balloon went up towards the nothing, but it didn't come, so he cried out for his mom, and rummaged frantically around the basket for some pills, which he couldn't find. But now he was high in the stratosphere and no longer above the masses, so he parachuted back to the earth, landing in a field of tall grasses where he laid his head down, and the hands of the wind held him lovingly as he drifted off to sleep. He dreamed that he was working in a comfortable office.