- Emma Klingbeil
Every morning, on my way to drowning, I would pass a man. This man is an old man, and he's missing a few bits and pieces. Every morning he sits on his window sill (which is actually a red wig). "I built this with my own two fingers," he'd rage. I stood across the street with my breakfast on my shoes, every day. I was getting closer and closer to obsession with this man. He sat on his "window sill", completely motionless for ten seconds. (Of course I timed him.) On the eleventh second on the eighth hour of the day, he snapped his grungy mouth wide open. After his dusty saliva started to roll out from the crack of his mouth, he began to form silent words with his lips. First, the words were slow, but of course, they became faster and faster. His face would get contorted and angry as he waved his thick brown tongue back and forth. (It was QUITE disgusting, for it was coated in a sheet of grey mucus.) He would suddenly stop, and quickly began to laugh to himself, enjoying it immensely. (A quite audible "hehehe".) The laughter soon faded, and that old man went back to his tongue-work. I, as usual, would then take my presence elsewhere. Today, though, I had become so intrigued by this man, I decided to speak a few words with him. I crossed the street (on the fading crosswalk to be exact), and stopped in front of him. I didn't even have to utter one word before he said to me, "You know, I'm chemically imbalanced."