Null in Good Morning Providence.

Shampoo makes his hair even wilder even in the weakest wind, but without noticing the puzzled glances from the periphery, it bears no universal consequence. His stride is awkward and arrhythmic: Toe, toe, toe, heel toe, toe, heel, but it’s always worked. Nobody important would hold these things against him. Two days of reprieve from saturated ground. Even when it resumes, he’s insulated. Thirty-two years as a child. Thirty two years feeding an ever-expanding sinkhole. His malaise is comfort, lost social cues and internal consumption. Still faced wandering into nightmares. All internal flora consumed by violet miasmic arms, presenting minimal escape velocity. The phantoms echo the old shouts and scolding of his development, cave in, get sucked off, sucked out by Yesterday. Yield so much, but never shouting.