mr skunk stood flustered with the world, the brutal world seething with anger and hate, so much so that he had begun to consume and cultivate that anger and hate within himself; other people’s rage boiling within and without, a timely brutal mess of the filth of other’s lesser emotions and selves.
he knew what he had to do, he had done it many times before. “the best way us skunks can survive when the world goes wrong is to release the wall of scent.” dad had known well in advance of the troubles lurking ahead, and so, like father like son
mr skunk released the scent of the ages and built a mighty fortress, an automatic oasis within the ruin of the world.
and like that, the kaleidoscope dissolved. and laying on the sand, by a palm tree in his own inner bermuda, mr skunk sang songs to himself of the magnitude of waves, the timelessness of the ocean of life.
this could be the end, but i will never know, here, protected in my lovely world of isolation, by sand and sea, where the tears dissolve and i can eat coconuts all day.