Yes, that’s absolutely correct, the Father of Surrealism. Well these days I’m nothing but a free-floating brain in an old Normandy fish tank but it’s something. It’s something surreal, n’est pas?  Last year one of my handlers finally succeeded in hooking me up to the internet. A couple plugs here and there and voila! my neurons were surfing the net. I was experiencing the exquisite, the marvelous and the surreal, all in unfettered moments of bliss. So here’s today’s story which follows a train of stories all told by falsehoods. I will write this tout de suite so I can get back to that sexy housewives site.

  C’est vachement Formidable!! 

 

 

 

Finally, it Starts to End

 

 

   Edward wakes up with a book on his face. He lifts it from his sleep-swollen eyes and reads, “Waking is a tender state wherein every second is like birth relived but with fouler breath.”  While slipping the book of fiction beneath his warm pillow, Edward wonders if this is true. Then he wonders if it’s funny. He gets out of bed. “And the light wakes up,” he says as he flicks on the hallway light with one finger. “The light is groggy and stumbles around a little,” he says imagining light elbowing its way into impossible angles. “The hot water also has to wake up,” Edward says as the cold comes first. “Wake up on the wrong side of the bed this morning?” he asks the water. “Are you grumpy?” he says in a mocking tone. His pet peeve is water that’s not in a glass. “Time to wake up,” he says to his unshaven, morning face. He’s speaking directly to his ambition of being the greatest landscape painter of all time. He stares back at himself with little response. He went to bed thinking that he would wake up and start 30 landscape pieces all on 5 by 8 canvases.  Each landscape of river, bridge and trees would be shown through a small window but the rest of the piece would be in gaudy wall-paper. He stares at himself in the mirror and blinks. “Fame’ll have to wait I guess,” he says shrugging his shoulders and turning to leave. “I know, I’ll be the world’s greatest writer!” he says and thinks through a story about a perverted little boy with x-ray glasses who ends up seeing not only through girls’ blouses but also through their skin. The boy grows up to be an asexual surgeon who is nevertheless accused of molesting an unconscious patient. In court and under hypnosis he recounts his experience with the x-ray glasses. Everyone – including the judge – weeps uncontrollably. Edward thinks this might be a good story but then he changes his mind. He goes back to bed where he can dream real dreams.

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