Last night I dreamt I returned to a fold

Last night I dreamt I returned to a fold I only vaguely remember ...

It felt like the time I was sensory deprived, floating in an isolation tank, and my brain started behaving like a fractalized origami. Fleeting where my thoughts, blissful

embracing the universe. In the iso-tank I was was slowly devolving to my primal state. Falling deeper and deeper into the inky blackness of a pigeon.

John fumbled swashbuckling referees at the football match and lost 100 percent of the lychee

stuck to the bottom of his shoes by simply wiping his shoes on the skulls of Drumpt supporters which were crawling out from beneath man hole covers all over the country. The sewers

had been scoured by Master Splinter, who wanted to kick the riff-raff out and lend the place some charm. He donned a frilly pink apron and swept the slavering political refuse out.

He installed a jargon jukebox, to entertain the crème de la crème while they scoured Master Splinter’s menu of nonaligned casseroles and independent quick breads. The Cold War had

created meat rations, so Master Splinter was counting on his restaurant's clientele to think it was just jargon on menu entrees such as Grub au Jus. (It was actually grubs.) Or

would they be fine knowing the truth? Western cuisine for so long had denied and shunned the openness of Eastern cuisine. Maybe it was time to tell them the truth. Grubs are tasty.

I put it on billboards across the western world—GRUBS ARE THE BEST. And the workd was ready for it. Soon everyone was enjoying grubs. i was satisfied-a job well done!