Manic Hyperbole

"I will serenade you to the clarion call of a hundred silver trumpets! I will write long strings of epic quatrains on every inch of toilet paper rolls and will string them over the trees! I will drink the roots of the ground and chase off the squirrels to find the sacred diamond-encrusted nut to bring to you! I will cut off excess meat from my bones to feed to the griffons so they will bear me into the cloud kingdom where the lizard queen will put me through a rigorous program of study and diet unti l have learned the ancient secrets of enlightement: namely that there is no point in pushing the body out of balance with rigorous study programs! I will hold back the reducing valve and will pump whatever comes out into my parieto-occipital cortex, come what may! I will dance tribal and sweaty and will rock the gevernment ministries from their foundations and rebuild the golden old trainyards! I will tower in debates and make the guests of honour cower behind their lecterns with my fangs! I will bring freshly thawed retinas to the blind and drown would-be fundamentalists in vats filled with phosphate-buffered saline, releaasing the lab rats the entire time! Will bounce off the walls until the trash cans and lab benches are all askew and everyone is asking themselves what on Earth is going on!"

Something was unleashed in our protagonist; maybe he is dancing to dance off the years he spent in deep freezers, nose painfully stuck in the crease of some musty book, parchment mites eating his scalp, lumbar muscles experiencing a dull pain; maybe his mischief is to overthrow the laws and customs handed to him by the tradition of old ladies with quilts; maybe he feels bigger than God right now and wants to find that effortless wealthy jackpot. Maybe he is oscillating about his formerly constant mean level of arousal, and nobody will get to see him when the energy has been depleted. Where does he go after the trees have buckled under the weight of his quatrains, or the squirrels have mourned for their hoard, or the lizard queen has gone to sleep, or the government ministies have been rebuilt? What horrible ashes does he scatter to the four winds? Was he too fragile for this world? What was he thinking? Was he spurred by insecurities, by feelings of uncleanliness or by something that happened earlier that day? Was he the witness of a flogged horse? A romantic kerfuffle? An eloquent and passionate invocation to violence from a smiling man behind the lectern?

This is how we do. Story, then commentary. But they are both stories, in their own plotless, plodding ways.

Consider: "Ко вино вечера, воду доручкује. (Who has wine for dinner has water for breakfast.)"