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Old 10-28-2002, 12:48 PM   #1
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Cantata Del Sol (chapter II)

He was in the kitchen grinning at the antics of "Sponge Bob Square Pants" as he peeled the banana and shoved it into his mouth.
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Old 10-28-2002, 01:53 PM   #2
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His attention was on the spongey antics on the t.v, so he didnt think about the hallucinogenic banana, now irretrievably on its way to his stomach.
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Old 10-29-2002, 06:34 PM   #3
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On his way to his dilapidated Davenport he let out a long, contented, satisfying sigh, as if to say, 'It was a great idea to call in sick.'
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Old 10-29-2002, 09:26 PM   #4
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Last night he had met the girl of his dreams and argued politics until they were both drunk, disorderly, and grinning like goofballs.
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Old 10-30-2002, 11:12 AM   #5
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If he had bothered to look in the rearview mirror he would have seen himself still smirking, but in his reverie would still have missed the black Studebaker, and it's three burley occupants, starting their engine simultaneously with his.
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Old 10-30-2002, 11:28 AM   #6
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He had been blinking in and out of awareness since last night, and, in remembering the events of the evening, he realized that time began to dance about him, disjointedly jumping from moment to moment and back.
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Old 10-30-2002, 11:38 AM   #7
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One moment his Davenport was a comfy, if ratty, old couch in his living room and the next it was a 50's era car with tuck & roll upholstry firing on all eight cylinders.
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Old 10-30-2002, 06:50 PM   #8
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The eerie, disjointed feeling of spinning without getting dizzy was creeping up his thighs, as he frantically struggled to focus on what was real and what was becoming his own reality.
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Old 10-30-2002, 06:53 PM   #9
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The girl had been hanging with a redneck lowlife sitting in a darkened booth at a table covered with fresh fruit and hypodermic needles.
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Old 10-30-2002, 07:06 PM   #10
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His temper flared as he continued piecing together the broken shards of memory, his mind pierced with splinters of images that reflected twisted pictures of booze, drugs, fruit, a girl and a 30-gallon hat.
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Old 11-01-2002, 01:06 AM   #11
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(just to keep with 'ze's suggestion, I've collected all of the posts into this one so we can copy it to each successive post, making a more readable piece)

He was in the kitchen grinning at the antics of "Sponge Bob Square Pants" as he peeled the banana and shoved it into his mouth. His attention was on the spongey antics on the t.v, so he didnt think about the hallucinogenic banana, now irretrievably on its way to his stomach. On his way to his dilapidated Davenport he let out a long, contented, satisfying sigh, as if to say, 'It was a great idea to call in sick.' Last night he had met the girl of his dreams and argued politics until they were both drunk, disorderly, and grinning like goofballs. If he had bothered to look in the rearview mirror he would have seen himself still smirking, but in his reverie would still have missed the black Studebaker, and it's three burley occupants, starting their engine simultaneously with his. One moment his Davenport was a comfy, if ratty, old couch in his living room and the next it was a 50's era car with tuck & roll upholstry firing on all eight cylinders. The eerie, disjointed feeling of spinning without getting dizzy was creeping up his thighs, as he frantically struggled to focus on what was real and what was becoming his own reality. The girl had been hanging with a redneck lowlife sitting in a darkened booth at a table covered with fresh fruit and hypodermic needles. His temper flared as he continued piecing together the broken shards of memory, his mind pierced with splinters of images that reflected twisted pictures of booze, drugs, fruit, a girl and a 30-gallon hat.
Had her interest in him been a ploy, a pernicious ruse to test the mad cowboy's psychotropic groceries?

Last edited by masterofNone : 11-01-2002 at 02:11 PM.
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Old 11-07-2002, 09:22 PM   #12
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He was in the kitchen grinning at the antics of "Sponge Bob Square Pants" as he peeled the banana and shoved it into his mouth. His attention was on the spongey antics on the t.v, so he didnt think about the hallucinogenic banana, now irretrievably on its way to his stomach. On his way to his dilapidated Davenport he let out a long, contented, satisfying sigh, as if to say, 'It was a great idea to call in sick.' Last night he had met the girl of his dreams and argued politics until they were both drunk, disorderly, and grinning like goofballs. If he had bothered to look in the rearview mirror he would have seen himself still smirking, but in his reverie would still have missed the black Studebaker, and it's three burley occupants, starting their engine simultaneously with his. He had been blinking in and out of awareness since last night, and, in remembering the events of the evening, he realized that time began to dance about him, disjointedly jumping from moment to moment and back. One moment his Davenport was a comfy, if ratty, old couch in his living room and the next it was a 50's era car with tuck & roll upholstry firing on all eight cylinders. The eerie, disjointed feeling of spinning without getting dizzy was creeping up his thighs, as he frantically struggled to focus on what was real and what was becoming his own reality. The girl had been hanging with a redneck lowlife sitting in a darkened booth at a table covered with fresh fruit and hypodermic needles. His temper flared as he continued piecing together the broken shards of memory, his mind pierced with splinters of images that reflected twisted pictures of booze, drugs, fruit, a girl and a 30-gallon hat.
Had her interest in him been a ploy, a pernicious ruse to test the mad cowboy's psychotropic groceries?

He winced.
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Old 11-07-2002, 09:47 PM   #13
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He was in the kitchen grinning at the antics of "Sponge Bob Square Pants" as he peeled the banana and shoved it into his mouth. His attention was on the spongey antics on the t.v, so he didnt think about the hallucinogenic banana, now irretrievably on its way to his stomach. On his way to his dilapidated Davenport he let out a long, contented, satisfying sigh, as if to say, 'It was a great idea to call in sick.' Last night he had met the girl of his dreams and argued politics until they were both drunk, disorderly, and grinning like goofballs. If he had bothered to look in the rearview mirror he would have seen himself still smirking, but in his reverie would still have missed the black Studebaker, and it's three burley occupants, starting their engine simultaneously with his. He had been blinking in and out of awareness since last night, and, in remembering the events of the evening, he realized that time began to dance about him, disjointedly jumping from moment to moment and back. One moment his Davenport was a comfy, if ratty, old couch in his living room and the next it was a 50's era car with tuck & roll upholstry firing on all eight cylinders. The eerie, disjointed feeling of spinning without getting dizzy was creeping up his thighs, as he frantically struggled to focus on what was real and what was becoming his own reality. The girl had been hanging with a redneck lowlife sitting in a darkened booth at a table covered with fresh fruit and hypodermic needles. His temper flared as he continued piecing together the broken shards of memory, his mind pierced with splinters of images that reflected twisted pictures of booze, drugs, fruit, a girl and a 30-gallon hat.
Had her interest in him been a ploy, a pernicious ruse to test the mad cowboy's psychotropic groceries?

He winced. As quickly as the hallucinations began, they evaporated leaving him bathed in a sickening cold sweat.
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Old 11-08-2002, 01:22 PM   #14
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He was in the kitchen grinning at the antics of "Sponge Bob Square Pants" as he peeled the banana and shoved it into his mouth. His attention was on the spongey antics on the t.v, so he didnt think about the hallucinogenic banana, now irretrievably on its way to his stomach. On his way to his dilapidated Davenport he let out a long, contented, satisfying sigh, as if to say, 'It was a great idea to call in sick.' Last night he had met the girl of his dreams and argued politics until they were both drunk, disorderly, and grinning like goofballs. If he had bothered to look in the rearview mirror he would have seen himself still smirking, but in his reverie would still have missed the black Studebaker, and it's three burley occupants, starting their engine simultaneously with his. He had been blinking in and out of awareness since last night, and, in remembering the events of the evening, he realized that time began to dance about him, disjointedly jumping from moment to moment and back. One moment his Davenport was a comfy, if ratty, old couch in his living room and the next it was a 50's era car with tuck & roll upholstry firing on all eight cylinders. The eerie, disjointed feeling of spinning without getting dizzy was creeping up his thighs, as he frantically struggled to focus on what was real and what was becoming his own reality. The girl had been hanging with a redneck lowlife sitting in a darkened booth at a table covered with fresh fruit and hypodermic needles. His temper flared as he continued piecing together the broken shards of memory, his mind pierced with splinters of images that reflected twisted pictures of booze, drugs, fruit, a girl and a 30-gallon hat.
Had her interest in him been a ploy, a pernicious ruse to test the mad cowboy's psychotropic groceries?

He winced. As quickly as the hallucinations began, they evaporated leaving him bathed in a sickening cold sweat. The room spun as he dipped in and out of time; he was sitting in a hot tub in a hotel penthouse.
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Old 11-09-2002, 02:19 AM   #15
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He was in the kitchen grinning at the antics of "Sponge Bob Square Pants" as he peeled the banana and shoved it into his mouth. His attention was on the spongey antics on the t.v, so he didnt think about the hallucinogenic banana, now irretrievably on its way to his stomach. On his way to his dilapidated Davenport he let out a long, contented, satisfying sigh, as if to say, 'It was a great idea to call in sick.' Last night he had met the girl of his dreams and argued politics until they were both drunk, disorderly, and grinning like goofballs. If he had bothered to look in the rearview mirror he would have seen himself still smirking, but in his reverie would still have missed the black Studebaker, and it's three burley occupants, starting their engine simultaneously with his. He had been blinking in and out of awareness since last night, and, in remembering the events of the evening, he realized that time began to dance about him, disjointedly jumping from moment to moment and back. One moment his Davenport was a comfy, if ratty, old couch in his living room and the next it was a 50's era car with tuck & roll upholstry firing on all eight cylinders. The eerie, disjointed feeling of spinning without getting dizzy was creeping up his thighs, as he frantically struggled to focus on what was real and what was becoming his own reality. The girl had been hanging with a redneck lowlife sitting in a darkened booth at a table covered with fresh fruit and hypodermic needles. His temper flared as he continued piecing together the broken shards of memory, his mind pierced with splinters of images that reflected twisted pictures of booze, drugs, fruit, a girl and a 30-gallon hat.
Had her interest in him been a ploy, a pernicious ruse to test the mad cowboy's psychotropic groceries?

He winced. As quickly as the hallucinations began, they evaporated leaving him bathed in a sickening cold sweat. The room spun as he dipped in and out of time; he was sitting in a hot tub in a hotel penthouse. Sitting across from him, the beer bellied redneck, naked and sweating, motioned to the girl sleeping on the nearby chaise, "She's yours tonight iffn' you want."
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