The Downtrodden

What the fuck is this? Here I am minding my own business, and all of a sudden I've got an engulfing and utterly arbitrary blue cloud obscuring my vision and making my lungs hurt. If it wasn't enough that my tree decided to desert me and my kin to the ground to quickly turn into a morbid brown, this. If it wasn't enough that the ground, of which roughly half of my body is touching, this. If it wasn't enough that the cruelties of physics elect to haphazardly ship me from section of cold ground to section of cold ground in something these strange humans call 'wind', this! I mean, I'm in a god damn tunnel for Christ's sake; the irony makes me laugh as it simultaneously makes me cry.

Why the fuck is it blue, anyway? I always thought the only thing that ever looked good in that bright a blue was the sky, and my opinion categorically remains unaltered.

I look over to the leaf next to me. His name is Steve. Steve looks fucking petrified. You know that moment when you need to shit and you are acutely aware that there isn't a toilet within the four gusts of wind you need to carry you there in time? Yeah. That look. I ask Steve what's up. He says he sees a hand. A white glove, coming out of the blue.

It's Michael Jackson, putting on a rehearsal. I fucking get it. Michael Jackson, picking on the little guy. Again.

It isn't a Moonwalk when you're underneath the shoe.