This was what it was like to write Sunday: ideas like flying monkeys appeared against the spun cotton clouds and dropped their poop all over the thatched cottage roofs of the town. It spattered down in the market square fountain, it soiled the parapets and towers of the Lady's castle on the hill above. The monkeys had lascivious congress with the stone gargoyles and angels adorning the cathedral, and then with chattering and howling and a great beating of their wings, they were gone, leaving bewildered townsfolk silently agape at the mess and wondering what it all meant and how to go on with their lives until the next flock of monkeys might come and make a mess of things.
Stupid monkeys.
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