Capping off an extended vacation on the head of a lit match, I stared sightlessly. The sun shown in my eyes but I did not squint. My purple thighs glistened and I could hear the buzz as the literati intoned their disapproval. The swirls of urine lazily floating around my head slightly dampened my hair and made me long for steak. The last few gourds stood untouched and softening in spite of themselves. I didn’t see the latex ball until it hit me squarely in the bumper, peeling the paper from it and exposing the strip mall beneath. Bargain hunters scurried for cover and died under the weight of expectation. I couldn’t breath. The lead in my lungs was suddenly sour with burning paint. I wanted to scream but could only giggle in small gasps. After the last art book fell from my nostril I began breathing again but only knives came when I exhaled. One of them injured a passing fascist but it went unnoticed. Yellow blood flowed and mixed with the sunlight and urine. Yellow was the theme of the year and the new red.