Mondays are a mind numbing fate of desolation and utter spiritual despair because you walked back into the annals of your career for a nine to five akin to a celestial prison fit for the fallen; a shadow casting itself from every direction.
Your ears expand into gaping portals that end in your skull cavity, right where that mass of grey matter rests in a gooey cushion that’s leaking out and the shock it was protecting you from is setting in; you didn’t stay in bed.
Your senses are screaming as the shadow forms, and its silhouette doesn’t look like you at all, rather an insectoid unseen before in this plane of existence, as the same day repeats over again, again; a menacing hum from dawn to dusk.
Before you some steps ahead, a zebra crossing ominously awaits your approach, it’s plotted something, a scheme ten million years in the making, set in motion by drips of rain and a speck of blood on your cuff; until you return yourself to bed.
Daily Tulpa 