Yes, I've been slacking again. If it is of any consolation to you good folks out there, I have a reason. My creative ideas of late have been staggering... staggeringly insignificant. But without further ado, train of consciousness, GO!
Post Script: It's short and much garbled like my own thoughts of late. Make of it what you will.
The smoke drifts from his pipe like the air current from the wings of a butterfly. A single draft that changes another and so on and so forth. It starts as a ring. It is complete. Perfect as the wheel of time. But then a shift, and it is broken. Tattered much the same as his sanity. Fraying at the edges and no longer self contained. It drifts apart, going in every direction at once. Every direction but back. There's no turning back at this point. Up and right, left, directions that have no name, and countless others that are too numerous to tally. He tries to enumerate them all, risking only the fragment of the circle that remains. A single breath dispels the thoughts.
And so he blows another, repeating the process, and giving life to the chain that ties him to the chair. Another thought, another broken circle. But behold, there is a change. In his thinking? No. In the air around him. The aroma of tabacco lingers. It hangs on. Gripping with ephemeral fingers lest it be driven off by a butterfly current. A single change that would allow him to break free from the circle, no longer pure, only perfect in its entrapment. He is caged, struggling against the bonds that keep him bound to the pipe. To the chair. To the ground, unable to float as the smoke or fly as the butterfly.
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