It had been a long day… a weird day… a day made of strange happenings that got in the way of everything Wayne wanted to get done. He sat on his front porch, squinting against the setting sunlight, and sipped from a cold can of Blue. Condensation collected around his finger tips, and dripped onto the old wooden treads. A light breeze ruffled his hair, and he tilted his head, slightly, to catch it on his forehead.
He didn’t want to think about what had happened that day, about the anti-sanity protest, the exploding fruit, the building full of shaving cream, and the singing butterfly. Especially the singing butterfly. He also didn’t want to think about what would happen tomorrow, or the day after, or the day after that, and the aftermath and repercussions of today’s events. He was tired, in the brain and in the bone, and he didn’t even care that at the rate he was drinking his beer, it would be flat and warm long before he’d emptied the can.
The sun felt nice on his face, and the breeze felt even nicer. When he closed his eyes, the world spun a little, but the clouds behind his eyes stayed nondescript and ill-formed.