A Day Without Bookends

Thomas Giles Honeywalk had absolutely no problem with staring in one spot all day long, drifting from one half sketched daydream to the next. He simply and easily cared nothing for how others looked upon him. He cared what they thought about other things, but if a thought was expressed about his disposition or behavior, his eyes would turn inward, leaning back a bit into his head, resting on all that eye juice and nerves, and contemplate how naked could he get in front of this person without scaring them off. And then he would proceed to find out.

Honeywalk had his own way of doing everything. He never did the dishes if he was not dizzy, so he had gone about collecting a variety of ways of becoming dizzy. His favorite method was putting on Beethoven's Fourth Piano Concerto Movement Rondo and pretending that he was guiding 187 aircraft to land simultaneously in an area one mile in radius. Post this exercise, dizzy he was.

Feeding himself was another grand adventure. For this he needed help. Caroline Butterbaum gave a bravado performace three times every day. She was the invading army, placing him firmly on the defensive. Hoisting a spoon, filled with gruel or somesuch foodstuff, her objective was to gorge his stomach until he lay sleeping and heavily breathing. Usually she succeeded, but if he could help it, it was her stomach that would be gorged and he who would munch on some Triscuits until the next round.

He uses a katana to trim his nose hair. Recontstructive surgery is always scheduled for the afternoon on these days just in case. In many cases.

At 4pm he fluffs each and every stuffed animal in his room. And your room if you'll let him. He has his eye on them though. He knows to watch and be sure that they do not become too friendly. He learned the hard way that a randy stuffed animal is a terrible force of nature. But even forces of nature need fluffing. And so he treads the line.

As for sleeping, who could bring me proof that he does it? Certainly no one close to him. Somehow they always manage to fall asleep before him, though he flails and flips as if he's fighting off an enraged periodontist.

And how does he bathe? The details shall not be openly spoken of. Doing so would voilate an international treaty.

Whatever else he does throughout the day you can be sure he does it with intensity, a dollup of mystery, and a spontaneity so profound that it makes the elderly clog hop to the primal rhythm of nature and gives the young a hint on their deepest sought question.