I got up early, pulling June after me like a battleship pulling a cloud. I left the house in a cloud of butterflies and settled on the bus stop as psychedelic dust. I met the grand old man just before he changed into an upright piano and temporarily left, his music still floating about the small room slowly reaching a crescendo. I left myself some time after dressed as a panda; before being a panda I was a high priest at the organic altar steadfastly proclaiming that the supreme being of all knights of old is a mushroom cloud (all of his creation is preprogrammed to sit in an ice cube and then light a fire). I came home on a rocking horse, not understanding why the scenery remains unchanged. When I finally got in I found June as a hazel nut still attached to the tree.