Various colors drip off the television, painting my living room walls disgusting tints of what has been and what should never be. Mother remains stretched out across the couch, mumbling words of riddle that never made sense to either of us. I breathe into a jar and place it in her left palm, the only hand that doesn't have dying quotes and last lines of songs all written upon it. She opens the jar and slowly inhales all of the oxygen. Her life support. She then throws the glass container at the wall behind her and the shards all stick into the cheap wood. The wall bleeds blue and the roof starts to lessen in saturation. I stand up and pick out all of the shards with my finger tips and super glue them together again. The scars in the wall spell out violent.
          Enough. I'm done filling in holes and painting walls and singing songs to myself to make the pain go away. I'm sick and tired of all the dirty air squeezing my skin against my bones and pushing me closer to the carpet. So I'm getting the hell out. And mother can find a man to give her oxygen, food, and love. It wouldn't be the first time she did it.

          The onyx sun hovers above the city's brick boulevards and asphalt avenues. The clouds have called in sick and there is not an airplane in sight. Grandfather clocks lay all across the sides of the street, ticking repetitively as if they strive to push me into a pit of insanity. They only wish they could fathom how much of a psychosomatic insomniac I am. I dig my nails into the concrete street and drag them down the entire road. That'll shut the bastards up.

          A series of butterflies and hurricanes pass by, but that's just too damn bad. I'm busy. I travel up the city hall steps and stand in front of the door. I grab the door knocker and I slam it hard enough that it sticks into the wood. The mayor opens the door with a curious smile and greets me kindly. I quickly attach my hand around his throat and I choke him for over three minutes. He and his body system eventually surrenders and he drops onto his expensive tile floor.

          “You were never any help anyhow.”

          The weary sidewalk crumbles beneath my feet, so I sit down and tape the cracks. Something the old mayor would never do. And after a few hours of persistent pulls, rips, and sticks, the sidewalk is complete. A man and a woman, a couple, walks all over my masterpiece and looks down at it.

          “Well, that's tacky”,  the man in the fancy suit says. The woman laughs.
          The sidewalk of melancholy begins to crumble again, and it completely splits open, sucking the cliché couple in. Crows and doves circle around the hole, singing together a song of sorrow. I walk over and pat their shoulders, whistling tunes of forever and tapping beats of never. They look at me with disapproval and then all push me into the opening.

          I open my eyes to find myself back in my living room. Mother coughs furiously and her hands signal toward the glass jar. I smile at her and walk over to pick it up. I flip the coffee table over and I throw the jar at the wall. She stares in disbelief and falls off the couch onto the carpet. The floor beneath my feet laughs wickedly, and I do too. I shuffle through the hallway closet and I grab my antique bird mask. I place it on, feeling chemically different as I do so.  I walk to the front of the house and throw open the door. People with fears and phobias stand outside my house, holding masks and instruments in their hands. Their eyes show pain and I can see their capillary veins. I take off my mask and hold it into the air.

          This is the parade of forgotten souls, but this time, we'll make damn sure we're remembered.