"Fools Are My Theme

     My wall’s newfound appendages reached like plaster trees out toward the world. Where had these arms that my wall had suddenly grown come from? Could it be that the wall itself was grasping for something? Perhaps it had grown lonely. Or maybe a person living inside it had realized there was a world outside his claustrophobic wonderland.      I walked carefully around them, feeling up and down the arms awkwardly. They felt like a part of the wall. Where normally fingerprints would spin in their spiral dance, textured plaster stuck out here and there like water drops. There was a complete and utter lack of wrinkles and identifying features,  instead opting for the same feel as the fingers. The arms themselves were far to sturdy: the tree trunk arms of giants, unbendable and as stiff as the walls themselves.      And yet, they were undeniably human. Undeniably one of us. The positioning of them was an odd formation of desperation and...

     The man was taller than I would have given him credit for. So tall, in fact, that I could see nothing of his face, which entered the clouds. And beyond presumably.      No, I can’t say whether he was a pale, wrinkled, wise  dude with long, flowing white hair and beard, or some dude with meth teeth and a hat screaming “Make America Great Again”. What I could see were his enormous hands, which he moved dramatically as he talked, as if it were expected of him.      Hopefully he understood that I personally didn’t expect anything of him. Hell, I certainly didn’t expect to meet him.      His palms were old, that was certain. But, they were also young, which made me less certain. The wrinkles on them ran like rivers, deep and pink, like the grand canyon illuminated by a ripe, rising sun. The wrinkles alone told stories, and the words that seemed to crawl on them were often distracting while he was talking, to the point t...