Happy joy runs like rivers of blood through the festivities, but we don't give a fuck because we are blind idiots, skipping maniacally through our days. We are like cute little chess pieces. Anyway, we are happy and butterflies fly through the air and light up the sky in shimmering rainbows of color. The air sparkles with that little zing of contentment, and just floods our hearts with perfect joy. Soft rumblings can be heard in the distance, like an air conditioner on fast rewind, but very far away, like the gentle bleating of sheep on a distant hillside, carried over the miles of time so miraculously on the wispy currents of air.
Nothing is real, everything is an illusion, a creation of our own sick minds.
Nothing really matters at this particular moment except the too bright fluorescence of light, and those fingers that seem to be moving of their own accord, the thoughts coming out of them like small rivulets of blood, misery and faceless yearning, red and drippy and thick, oozing slowly out of the girl, her soul seeping out into the keyboard with no regret or restraint. So anyway, we are oh so freaking happy. On the days when we aren't frolicking in the flowered fucking meadows, we go to our mad little jobs in the felt factories. We are the mad hatters, madly hatting away at our days with small pick axes and giant bloody ice picks. We happy frolickers like to have naked parties in the steaming summer rain, for the rain is a beautiful black experience for our pure, sunny souls.