"Buongiorno!" the stout, little man yelled

"Buongiorno!" the stout, little man yelled and lifted his hand in greeting. "Sa la ragazza da Ingleterra??"

The girl blushed. "Yes I'm the girl from England." she said. "Prego la mia ragazza." Said the stout Italian man who lead her up the hill.

She didn't understand him. "Maybe he is hungry," she thought, pulled something from her backpack and offered to him: "Vaff****lo". A friend taught me that. It means waffles."

He looked at her and then at the waffle in her hand before batting it away in anger. He opened his mouth to speak again and try to make her understand him, when suddenly a loud

boom echoed through the room. The waffle had collided with the fire extinguisher, which toppled over into the microwave. The following explosion was relatively small, but in the

Grand Scheme of Things, aren't they all. Even the Big Bang, which included everything, was barely a whimper. This explosion, however, had blown away any narrative cohesion that mig

-ht have kept the toilet that was my life firmly fastened to the cold tile floor of history. It blew my mind sky high and left me floating in the sea of Limbo. Was it my fault that

I was speaking in metaphors, or was it the drugs I had taken? After the gears of my mind made their cerebral dance, I decided it was probably the latter. The sun started singing to

the swaying leaves: the bees hummed harmony and the rhythm was in the trees. But I kept believing that chaos was my only friend, ad it became evident that I was too high to drive.