Slow demonization of horned gods

Your feet slowly weld themselves to the planet. But you realise, and you resist. What can blanket such an amperage and soothe it back to its sleeps?

Perhaps you become an old man, with a white beard. You have snuck out an exit of your special home. You are driving north along Battlefield Boulevard. You are in the southbound lanes. You are not surrounded by a car, but you must be imagining that you are. You are strolling in white pants and white sneakers, and a bright yellow shirt. Almost neon. People stare at you, walking in the middle of a major suburban thoroughfare towards oncoming traffic not quite a quarter-mile away, now. You seem to be completely oblivious, or else you are not and you just do not care any longer. Your hands are out in front of you, in fists, clutching an invisible steering wheel that you leisurely swerve back and forth, and your head compensates for the imagined swaying of angular momentum.

You are pretending, again. And it is dangerous.

This was a hilarious and distressing scene that i witnessed, recently, but at the last possible moment, an absolutely huge and overemphasized right hand swerve was maneuvered, and the old man who was imagining himself to be driving a car dodged into the median just before he was squashed by the real things.

Maybe i will be that insane, someday.