The Puppeteer

We have approximately one week to come to terms with the shadowy puppeteer, safetly tucked behind insipid eyes of curiousity, beating his decades-old drum and molding his gigantic private Idaho, exhaling the wasted fumes in his lungs and boldly proclaiming them hence as the communal spirit we exult ourselves in. On this magnificient landscape mad men do battle, flipping over discarded puppets as a sickle clashes with a thunderbolt beneath a starry night sky. Zombies suspend their own passivity and tune to newer frequencies of irrationality and vehemence, for they understand that the sweetened loaves and jars of honey will remain unexpired after seven days of tribulation. Certainly, no amount of controlled insanity can rip their roofs apart; there would be no tornadoes allowed. What a carnival of irreverence, what a tango of loons and dwarves, what a parade of oddities! The shadowy puppeteer smirks, for he is already looking forward to checkmating his tireless companion over a steaming cup of coffee, after the final self critique of his drama pens its way to a phyrric full-stop.