I walk into a room where everyone is made of triangles and recite a poem which I compose off the top of my head:
A good triangle is hard to find these days.
But why you do insist on punching holes
in radiators? Surely no one knows.
I can’t think why you’d want to punch those holes;
it smacks of pointless desperation.
We are the Kings and Queens of all we see,
which wouldn’t seem so splendid were it not
for one sad fact: yes, all of us are blind.
Everyone pauses from their act of punching holes in radiators to offer their applause. I see that I am now finding it difficult to talk in prose; like that time we went on a bungee jumping holiday; finding places of outstanding natural boredom; celebrating our arrivals by dousing everything in petrol before we hid in expectation of surprising any passing ramblers who threw their fag ends to the ground. There are worse things to do than punching radiators.
Everyone coughs nervously as I realise that I’ve just said all of that out loud and not simply written it while lying on my bed, as I had supposed to be the case.
‘Fucking triangles,’ I say, and punch a radiator on my way out.