Kill Your Family

He found his own movements jittery, like he was stuck in a silent film. He had no control over anything, the ways in which the film played or his movements. He shuffled into the kitchen to make the last scrap of food he had left. This was supposed to last him until three days from now, yet here he was using the last two pieces of bread (one a crust) to make some sort of cheese sandwich, today. The mix of sandwich spread, mustard and mayonnaise created a new condiment. This concoction was viscous and a mixture of yellow and off-white, with small green chunks in it. It resembled a sort of snot, cum, and medium consistency oatmeal formula. He muttered to himself and intermittently, lyrics to some song could be deciphered between his murmurs and whispers.

“It’s all over,
I thought we had thousands of years,
but why? Why am I shaking without you?
Our June overture,
Lead to lesser movements,
I’m shaking without you.”

Last night’s dream went something like this: He found himself jumping from a building and then he began to float which was interesting because he’d never floated before. He landed somewhere in the middle of a large crowd. The crowd was intently listening to a speaker. He could sometimes see himself from afar and sometimes was inside of himself looking out with a normal perspective, but since he was aware of this he felt like a voyeur on his own life. He noticed his own toothbrush moustache immediately. He fingered it gently and felt the way his whiskers did as they pleased after growing to a certain length. They became like some God-awful dog with limited training.

With the noise of the crowd, the speakers only words that rang through were “savior,” “duty,” and “liberty.” The message seemed clear enough though, “We are against them and your money will prove you are with us.”

He was then looking at himself from a window a few stories above the crowd. He saw a child and a small miniature gorilla standing next to each other. Each person began to turn into engine blocks as the child picked up the feces of the miniature gorilla. The engines resembled longtime dying friends in a dark forest with many eyes all made of Franklin Mint plates. He recalled how the Franklin Mint had once made this plate with starving, emaciated Third World children being fed sandwiches with ketchup, sand and a touch of mustard. This didn’t go over very well.

He watched the speaker as he spoke to a near-empty piazza. Empty, except for the dreamer, the engine blocks, the young child, and the miniature gorilla as the only listeners. He felt like he was inside of this building holding a gun, or maybe he was the gun. Either way, he lined up his shot and launched a bullet directly towards his own toothbrush moustache. Just before the bullet hit, his perspective changed and he was in his own body. He was jolted awake, be gone.