‘Is this what it’s like to go crazy?’ he wonders. In the broadest of broad summer sunlight, the asphalt of the road soft beneath his feet, heat shimmers warp his dim visions. The street tar soft enough so his bare, burning feet sink within it. His fingers woven into the nylon mane of a Malibu Barbie with fully pose-able extremities, her soft and evenly tanned vinyl skin brushing his own pale legs, pale legs spattered with suppurating sores, and his painless descent into the smoldering macadam a metaphor for something only dimly visioned.
“This must be what it’s like to go crazy,” he stated with only Malibu Barbie to hear his whispers.
And he was right.