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he had heard stories about the spring, those who drank, were cured of insanity, and thinking himself insane, would run around all day stabbing himself in the neck with a plastic fork trying to kill himself. it never worked, he was a mess. he pondered the river, but loved his insanity, the trees roared and danced furious spring green tones, the grass like men in queue smoldering and swimming back and forth in the devoid, streets peeling sounds that run up his hollow spine shrieking music downs the faces of people melting before his eyes their words distorted and fluttering butterflies movement and each face smiling terrified the walls standing thick the miracles elating their song the walls sang the ground shifted like a river and flames of color danced before his eyes in night drunk. bleed blood ran from cracks and anything and his dead mother dancing her corpse around in the graveyard with the man sitting in the tree sucking on the wooden flute embracing song her broken head flapping around, he grew tired one day of his diving and running exhausted, and fell to his knees next to her to spring of stories and slaked and stricken thirsty guzzled the water. as he walked he dropped his plastic fork. the air no longer bit his face, and colored his dreams. it was flat. the colored flames melted into the sea of darkness. his mother fell into her tomb asleep. the greens faded into greys, the bellowing sound of everything became only an annoying din of painful sounds, agonized and tired, as colors and forms drained into platitudes and lumps, he stretched out under a tree and stabbed himself in the neck with a pocket knife.