Corn Dogs and Dog Days

A year of play, she says from across the country, and you let your neurons run with it. You played for much too long as a child, you were meant to have left it behind ages ago. but you refused, you couldn't help yourself, your mind was a mile a minute with imagination. 

A year of play, she writes inside your eyelids, across the whiteboard of your grey matter, into the oxygen you keep trying hard to breathe. What would happen if you let yourself, just for a little while, be free? 

The year is long but the life is short. Or was it the other way?

You throw out the clocks. 

You were never on time, anyway.