My ideas never seem to go anywhere.
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The hooded voodoo man came prancing out down of the swirling green wind-filled high mountain forests when the seasons turned, fall rolling into winter, the icy razor of the northern air slicing through the needles, howling mournful songs.
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A stillness hung on the beach, muting the cyclic crashing of the waves. Individual particles of sand traced chaotic patterns in an imperceptible breeze. They shifted restlessly but remained constrained in their tiny orbits. A boy sat surrounded by thousands of Brownian walks, but oblivious to them, the breakdown of order that dragged traces of the beach over the tops of his bare feet. His thin arms were wrapped around his knees, his chin resting above them, and his pale gaze slid out beneath a cap pulled low over half-lidded eyes, watching the surf. The water was gray, shrouded by the morning mist that sat featureless and immobile above. The waves crested just enough to spill crumbling foam.
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