| Babineaux sat up in bed, and his tabletop alarm became cathedral bells ringing at frequencies unknown to man. The vowels from his mouth as he yawned were the hoots of a locomotive, but everything else was bells. The trees outside were bells, and his brain was one big, ringing bell, thundering forth a deafening silence. Babineaux scratched under his arm, and down his pants, his member a great oak, frozen in place.
In the kitchen, Babineaux prepared his breakfast so that he could put it inside himself and have his digestive wheels and cogs mash it into useful energy for the machine he had become. But there was milk, and only milk, today. No croissants, no jam, and most certainly no biscuits. No matter. Babineaux poured himself a tall-ish glass of milk and sat down, licking his lips.
Babineaux peered into the milk. It had eyes and a mouth that smiled sweetly. The milk asked, “How are you doing?” Babineaux pondered this. How was he doing? Foam dribbled from his lips. The milk asked, “How will you punch sheets at work today? Will your hands ache with rheumatism today? Will you wipe away a bead of sadness or a tear of sweat?” Today’s milk was very inquisitive. Much more than yesterday’s milk. Babineaux pondered these questions for fractions of a second, and then guzzled his milk swiftly. He did not want to be late. He got himself dressed, brushed, shined, and sprayed with cologne and was out the door, which melted as he passed the threshold and floated into the streets. There was no time to chat with breakfast. Not today.
Last edited on Wed Nov 4th, 2015 06:09 am by RTurco