Rabbits Running Races for Ritalin

Nothing is what it is anymore. Plans dissolve, thoughts become dreams become extensions of reality and a handshake that never happened is remembered. There is a constant blurry hum and every now and then a transmission is sent, crackling over the radical radio station politico in my basement which doubles as a bomb shelter, picked up by the aluminum attenae lodged in my shoulders. This is how I know what's going on. The invasion will begin in a few weeks and the flood will come without warning and without remorse. Still thinking about buying that summer boat for the lake? Do it, man, the sooner the better.